


That Which Makes a Man

by AlibiRooms



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amnesia, Auror Harry Potter, Dealing With Trauma, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Magic, Post-War, References to Addiction, References to Depression, Self-Acceptance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 97,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22719277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlibiRooms/pseuds/AlibiRooms
Summary: An Auror mission gone wrong leaves Harry with no idea who he is, or what brought him there. The people in his life tell him he was a hero, a symbol of hope. It's what they don't say that worries him - the darkest parts of a hero's psyche, what remained in the aftermath of a war he can't recall. How his pain had hurt everyone around him.The man who saved his life is named Draco Malfoy. Harry isn't supposed to like him, but he does. It's his idea to ask him for help in tracking down the person that took his memories. A potion, a Dark Mark, and an Unbinding.Hermione keeps saying she can fix it all. Harry doesn't know if he wants her to.He's not sure the person he was is worth remembering.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas
Comments: 50
Kudos: 221





	1. Finding a footing

Everything hurt. The pain was so intense he had trouble making sense of it _._ Slowly, his surroundings filtered past. Rain pounded onto him where he lay, sprawled out in the mud. All of him was soaking wet, but the moisture on his stomach was warm and thick. He pressed his hand to it, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to his feet. As he tried to sit up, things only got worse. Dizzy nausea joined the sharp pain.

It was dark. Near pitch-black, but the sounds around him were vaguely…forest-like. The sound of rain was muted and echoed, like a barrier of canopy gently broke its fall. Standing up straight made it too hard to breath. He bent forward, sucking in air against the agony.

Nothing was broken, it seemed. Nothing important enough to keep him from walking. He took a step forward, then another. A persistent, nagging thought that made him stop. It was important, for some reason, that he make sure no one was around.

So he stopped, listening intently without knowing why. Calling out for help would have made more sense, but he didn’t. It felt…dangerous. Someone must have done this to him, and left him there.

Mud had filled his shoes, so his feet squicked and squished when he started walking. Every few meters, he would run into a tree trunk. The wet, rough bark cut at his hands when he reached out, leaning heavily against it. He had to get help. Losing blood was bad. He should…he should do something…

Several minutes later, the darkness let up. Just slightly. The thick cloud cover revealed, briefly, a full moon. He saw with gasping relief that there was a structure rising up in the near distance. Indistinct, but it definitely man-made. People. There’d be people in there.

The rain came to a slow stop, the quiet absolute. Despite the looming structure in front of him, he knew that this must be the absolute middle of nowhere. No halo of light pollution marred the sky. The air smelled too…clean. His brain was processing all of this in ways he didn’t understand. It was clinical and sharp, but like a jigsaw puzzle with pieces that kept changing shape. He couldn’t quite put it together.

Dread almost overpowered the pain as he drew closer to the building. The moon was out again, enough for him to see the glint of it off dark, empty windows. Thick brush grew along and up the sides of what looked to be a manor. The brick, even in night, was discolored. Aged. Filthy.

There was no one here.

Any strength the possibility of help had given him seeped away. Walking this far had taken all he had. He wasn’t going to make it. He was going to die alone and injured, with no idea of how he’d come to be here, or who he even was.

He came an abrupt stop at the edge of the trees, where thick underbrush turned to untamed bushes. This could have been a garden, once, but it wasn’t what had caught his attention. It must have been his imagination, but something appeared to have moved in one of the windows. A flash of white.

He searched it out, but whatever it was had drew further inside. Suddenly, he very much did _not_ want to go into that house. Something in the air seemed wrong. Evil. There was no way for him to know that, but his gut advised strongly in walking the exact opposite direction.

It was getting harder to breathe. He wouldn’t be walking anywhere for much longer.

Just as he was considering lying on the wet ground and giving up, the hair on the back of his neck stood up.

_“Incarcerous!”_

Terror spiked through his chest, but it was nothing next to the utter agony in his abdomen as his hands were drawn sharply behind his back by thick cords. The momentum of it pushed him onto his back, his tied hands pinned under his spine and forcing his stomach to bend upwards. Whatever scream he produced was drowned out by the pounding blood in his hears.

“Shut up.”

A boot kicked sharply at his thigh, and then there was light. It was blinding at first. He had to blink tears away before he could make out the ghostly face bending over him. It was a man. He looked surprised (which seemed quite ironic), then _angry._

“Who the fuck are you?”

Speaking took a while, the pain was so intense. A wand jabbed into his throat impatiently.

“I asked you a question.”

“P-please.” His own voice was hoarse and ragged. “Please – you have to help me.”

A hand dragged roughly along his sides. Searching. He sucked in a breath as the movement irritated the wound. “Please don’t hurt me – “

“Shut. _Up._ ” The stranger growled. The wand was pulled back a few inches, pointing at his face. The stranger seemed to think hard about something, eyes wide and staring. Then, “ _Legilimens.”_

The white light flashed brighter, and a strange, floating feeling pulsed through his head.

“Tell me who you are,” the stranger said in a hard voice.

“ _I don’t know.”_

The feeling faded, and the man’s eyes went even wider. “Jesus, Potter. It’s really you, isn’t it?”

His voice wasn’t any kinder, but the tone had turned familiar. “Y – you know who I am?”

“Fuck,” the man said. “What are you doing _here?_ ”

Potter. Was that his name? It didn’t sound familiar. “I w-woke up in the forest. Someone must’ve attacked me.”

It didn’t look like the man was really listening to him. He’d turned his gaze up, looking around them into the darkness.

“Get up.” He stood, still looking around.

“I can’t.”

“I’ve lifted the curse, dullard.”

“I _can’t!”_ Potter yelled, frustrated. The stranger looked down at him, then for the first time noticed his stomach. Potter looked down, too, pulling his hands out from under him and gasping with pain. It was worse than he would have even guessed. Blood pulsed through his fingers, soaking into the torn fabric of a sweater.

“No,” the stranger breathed, dropping to his knees. “Don’t touch it.” He knocked Potter’s hand away, pressing down with his own. “What have you done?”

Potter didn’t exactly think he’d done it to himself, but he didn’t say that. The stranger waved his wand, and in an instant the trickling rain ceased to hit them. An umbrella charm. Then a blue ball of fire burst into being over his body, giving the whole scene a sickly glow.

“Are they looking for you?”

The words shot fear up Potter’s chest, through the encroaching numbness. “Who?”

“Where’s your wand?”

His _wand_. How had he not thought to look for it where he’d woken up? His wand was…important. Or something. “Don’t…remember…”

A sharp slap across his face woke him. The stranger shook him by the shoulder.

“None of that, now. Stay awake.” He muttered something quietly into the tip of his wand, then pointed it at the sky. Bright white light. A vague, birdlike shape shot up and away, flashing over the treetops.

It was cold. Too cold. Bit at his face, his feet. Gnawed at his stomach. “Inside…house…”

“You can’t go in there. It’s cursed,” the stranger said tersely. Panicked. Afraid. His lit wand waved around a bit. Some of the worst cold went away. When he leaned in, his breath was sweet. Minty. “Listen to me, Potter. They’re going to think I did this to you. You _must_ tell them the truth. Do _not_ fall asleep, do you hear me?”

“Who…who’s coming?” Potter asked. The fear brought him back to his body, a little. “Don’t leave me. You’re the only one who knows who I…”

A short, incredulous laugh escaped the stranger. “I swear, if you’re somehow taking the piss – “

Potter reached up, gripping the man’s shoulder with every ounce of strength he had. Shadowed eyes narrowed. “Don’t let them take me.”

The man moved like he was going to push Potter’s grip away, but he didn’t.

“The Ministry won’t harm a hair on your head, Potter.”

Potter’s hand slid back into the mud. The next slap didn’t even register.

“Wake _up!”_

Potter looked up at him through heavy eyes. His last moments on Earth might be with this person. This person who knew him. “Who are you?” He asked. The words didn’t sound right. They were warbled, thick.

The stranger laughed again, humourlessly. “I’m someone in deep shit, that’s who.”

In the clutches of death, Potter took a strange comfort from this man’s smile. It was unhappy, turned down at the corners, but it wasn’t unwelcome. “Potter…isn’t a very good name, is it? What…”

Everything was spinning and slowing and pressing his eyelids shut. The man hit him again, this time in the stomach. Potter screamed, the force of it tearing at his throat.

“Harry,” the man said, putting his hand over the wound and pressing gently. Like an apology. “Your name is Harry Potter.”

“Harry,” he croaked, trying it. “I don’t like that one, either.”

The man opened his mouth, and then there were five loud _cracks_. Running footsteps sounded somewhere beyond Harry’s field of vision. The man didn’t look up. He gazed at Harry with a strange, panicked intensity.

“Get away from him!”

“Is it really Harry? How the fuck - ?”

The stranger finally broke his stare. “It took you quite long enough.”

His voice had changed. It was blithe, uncaring.

“Step back, Malfoy. I’ll curse your ears clean off – “

“Ron, calm down. He’s Ministry – “ Someone tried.

“He’s a fucking Death Eater!” There was a flash of light, and what looked like a stinging hex flashed across the stranger’s face. He flinched back from Harry. The flame went out, leaving him blind as rain once again fell into his eyes.

“Wait…” Harry tried, reaching. The last thing he heard were the sounds of a scuffle. Someone was hit.

Then a deeper, more absolute darkness washed over him, and he knew no more.

_________________

The pain was gone. That was relief. He was comfortable, warm and dry instead of freezing, muddy, and wet. There was light beyond his eyelids. It didn’t seem too incredibly bright, so he tried opening them.

Things swam into focus, through…glasses? He hadn’t been wearing them before, he was sure. The room was small, sparse.

His first impression was that it was medical. There weren’t any machines or beeping, and it took him a second of looking around to realize that he was in a wizarding hospital. That must be it.

None of that interested him so much as the woman sitting next to him. She was small and smartly dressed. A burgundy tweed suit jacket hung off the back of her chair as she leaned forward, peering down at a stack of papers in her lap. Curly hair dripped from a large bun. One dark brown hand rested idly on the blankets near his. There was a ring on it.

The next time she shifted the papers, she glanced over. Her eyes went wide when she saw he was awake. The papers slid off her lap and into the floor with a great rustling.

“Harry! You’re – oh, _bother!”_ She took her wand from where it was stuck through the center of her bun and waved them back into order, levitating them to a table.

“How do you feel?” She asked, leaning forward to grasp his hand with both of hers.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Well, erm – I think I am.”

She leaned in closer, setting a hand on his cheek. The soft gesture didn’t match the way her eyes moved over him, like she was the scientist and he the specimen.

“Are we married?” He blurted.

She stared at him for a long moment, cheeks darkening. He looked away guiltily. Oh, God, this must be horrible for her. Clearly, they were _something_ , and he had absolutely no recollection.

When he found it in himself to look up again, there were tears in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, squeezing her hand. “I don’t – I can’t – “

“No, don’t apologize.” She wiped quickly at her eyes, sniffing. “We weren’t certain if…if he was telling the truth. I’ll go get Ron.”

He let her go, sensing she needed a minute. She stopped before opening the door.

“We aren’t married,” she said quickly, then strode out.

Harry caught sight of a few women in Healer’s robes walking past before the door closed again, leaving him alone. That had been awkward. He got the feeling there was a lot more of it coming. Surely his family would be here, soon. Maybe that’s who she was? A sister, or a sister-in-law.

Ron. He’d heard that name. Just before he’d passed out. Back at that abandoned house, Ron had been one of the people Harry was afraid of. That seemed almost silly, now, because clearly he wasn’t in danger.

When the door opened again, it was to admit a very large, very _orange_ person. He was nearly the height of the frame. Almost wiry, but with enough muscle to be noticeable. His short hair was bright ginger, and his t-shirt was an even brighter orange with a broomstick across the chest. _Chudley Cannons_ was printed in curly letters. It all made quite the impression.

Harry only had a moment to take it in before he was being…mauled? No – hugged. Or at least what this person understood as a hug. He jerked Harry up by the shoulder and crushed him between two strong arms.

“Harry!” He said, letting him slump back into the mattress after a long moment. His face was freckled and handsome. “Merlin, it’s good to see you awake.”

The woman who’d held his hand gave Harry a chagrined look from behind Ron’s back. He was relieved to see that the tears were gone.

“You’re Ron.”

Ron’s face lit up. “You remember!”

“I just told him your name,” the woman said tiredly. “He has no idea who we are.”

“Fuck. I thought you were just being pessimistic.”

Harry sat up, waving Ron away when he tried to help, or maybe stop him. No pain came from his abdomen. He pushed the thin blankets away and pulled up the pale blue shirt he’d been dressed in.

The scar was thin, but long. It traveled from almost his hip up to his ribs, a light beige that stood out against the deeper brown of his skin. He exhaled a shaky, relieved breath. There had been so much blood before.

“A curse scar,” Ron said sympathetically. “Sorry, mate.”

He let the shirt fall and made to get out of the bed, but this time Ron did stop him, setting a large hand on his shoulder. Harry pushed it away roughly, noting both of their shocked expressions.

“Where is he?”

The woman stepped forward anxiously. “Who, Harry?”

“The man who saved me. He was…” Harry collected his memories, looking at Ron. “You attacked him.”

Ron’s mouth fell open. “ _I’m_ the one who saved you. Let’s make that clear.”

“Ron,” the woman said quietly.

“And I didn’t _attack_ Malfoy. Merlin-knows- _what_ he did to you, or how he arranged any of it with Dolohov – “

“ _Ronald,_ ” she snapped.

“Is that his name? Malfoy?” Harry looked to the woman, now. She was much more agreeable.

“Yes. Draco Malfoy.”

 _They’re going to think I did this to you_.

Harry started to panic. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”

Ron’s face was turning red. The woman patted his arm consolingly. “He’s here. They’re holding him for questioning, but he’s…fine.”

“I have to talk to whoever’s in charge of – “

“I am,” Ron snapped. “I’m Head Auror while you’re here.”

“Oh.” Harry faltered. He was an Auror. It felt strange to think it. “Why are you keeping him, then?”

The woman looked between the two of them with increasing concern. Ron’s face was nearing purple, and Harry was really getting tired of this.

“I want to see him,” he said. He had to make sure…of what, he had no clue. When these people looked at him, it was like they expected something. It was bloody terrifying, frankly. He’d feel better if he could just see that Draco was okay. It was the least he could do.

“I can’t do this right now,” Ron said tersely, turning on his heel. “Sorry, Hermione.”

She watched him storm out, lips pursed.

“So he’s a…coworker?” Harry asked tentatively. Hermione looked heartbroken for a second, then seemed to collect herself.

“He’s your best friend, Harry.” She waved her ring finger. “And my husband. So I feel I have the authority to apologize for his behavior.”

 _That_ was his best friend? He rather seemed like an arse.

He turned to let his bare feet sit on the cold floor, not quite ready to stand. Falling over seemed like quite the possibility. “How long have I been here?”

“Two days.” She was hanging back, but it was clear that took some effort. “Are you hungry?”

As if on cue, his stomach grumbled. Hermione smiled.

“Hello,” someone said softly, knocking on the door as they opened it. A witch in pastel pink robes stepped in, long blonde hair hanging in a ponytail. “Ron said he’s awake?”

Hermione nodded, moving further away from his bed. “Harry, this is Hannah Abbot. She’s a Healer.”

“Hey, Harry,” Hannah said, giving him a careful smile before casting a slurry of spells from the foot of his bed. Diagnostics, it looked like. Vague, uncomfortable feelings prodded along his body in time with her wand jabs. Words scribbled themselves across the air, darting down to the blank clipboard under her arm as she read them.

Hermione fiddled with her own wand. “Hannah went to school with us. She’s a friend.”

“Ah,” Harry said, intelligently.

“Physically,” Hannah handed the clipboard over to Hermione. Harry frowned, wondering why she was allowed to see his business like that. “You’re perfect. The curse was a hybrid. The Aurors think Dolohov was – “

“Hannah,” Hermione said quickly, shaking her head.

“Right. Erm, well, what we don’t understand.” Hannah nodded to Hermione. “What the Unspeakables are interested in, is how exactly you lost your memory. How it happened, but also the extent of it. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded. “If I was cursed – ?”

“Whatever the curse was, there’s no visible reason it should have affected you this much. No head trauma, no degeneration.”

“But if he _obliviated_ me…” Harry trailed off as Hermione started scribbling on the clipboard with a pen she’d produced. “What are you writing? Are you a doctor?”

She looked up, biting her lip. “I’m an Unspeakable.”

“Right.” He found he had no idea what that meant.

“She’s also your emergency contact,” Hannah supplied. “We’ll be releasing you into her care. Are you alright with that, Harry?”

He nodded, and after a few more general questions about his health, Hannah left. The way she looked at Hermione was odd. Harry got the sense she was deferring to her.

He stood, walking slowly to the other end of the room. His legs felt fine, not at all wobbly. “So I’m free to go?” His arms had old, faded scars dotted across them. Made sense for an Auror.

“We can, if you feel ready. I’ll take you to your place first, to get anything you need. Then you can stay at ours.”

“I need to find Draco first.”

Hermione took a deep breath, gripping the clipboard. “It’s quite a lot to explain, Harry, but we need to keep you out of the public eye right now.”

“What?” He stopped. That seemed serious. “Why?”

“Mal – “ She bit her lip again. “Draco is being held at the Ministry.”

“Held? Prisoner?”

“No,” Hermione said firmly. “No. They’re just trying to get the story straight.”

“I can help with that.”

“Yes, you can.” She gestured to the clipboard. “I’ll take your statement, of course. Should we do that now, or would you rather have your own clothes on, first?”

He was reluctant to let it go, even for the amount of time it would take to go to his apartment, wherever that was. The room outside was large, bustling with people in pink and blue robes. Words and memos moved quickly overhead to their various destinations.

Oh, and _everyone_ looked at him.

It wasn’t a total standstill, everyone stopping to stare sort of thing. It was more subtle than that. There was Hannah, who smiled and waved a goodbye to him. But everyone else, as he and Hermione passed, looked up.

The looks were lingering. Some glanced away after meeting his eyes, abashed. Others didn’t look away quickly enough. It was like they _all_ knew exactly who he was.

Hermione stopped in front of a large fireplace. The flames inside were very low, not producing any smoke. He guessed a huge bonfire would be unwise in a place like this. She took a pinch of green powder from a sconce on the wall, and looked over.

“This is a – “

“Floo,” he finished, grimacing. “I know.”

Something in his tone made her smile. “Do you, now? And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you your address?”

He didn’t have a reply to that. Her smile widened and she stood on tiptoe to whisper it in his ear. Then she threw the powder into the flame and gestured for Harry to step inside.

It was unpleasant, which he expected. Everything spun, but it was a closed network so he didn’t see any other fireplaces. There was nowhere to get lost, and it was simple enough to step out of his own. The halt of momentum sent him stumbling, and he fell forward as his foot caught on something.

Hermione giggled behind him, stepping over the hump in the rug and flattening it out with her heel before helping him up. “I’ve been telling you to get rid of this thing.”

The rug was hideous, and very obviously ancient. Dark, aged spots discolored the oriental patterns. The other furnishings were nicer. A couch, a few comfortable-looking chairs, and a television set. It looked less lived in than he would have hoped. There was no glaring, blinking neon sign that told him anything significant about the person he was.

At least, not until he stepped into the kitchen. It wasn’t a pleasant picture – the sink was full of dishes, and take out containers littered the countertops. Half empty mugs of tea sat on the little brunch table by the dark window. Among them were two large, empty bottles of firewhisky.

“Jesus,” he said. “I don’t guess I had a party here?”

Hermione didn’t say anything. He moved closer to the table, curious and repulsed. A picture frame was turned face-down. When he picked it up, he saw a large crack across the glass. Like someone had slammed it down in a drunken rage.

The photo was nice, though. It was a man and a young boy sat on a beach, wearing swimming trunks and squinting against the sun. The boy noticed the person taking the picture first, and tugged on the man’s arm until he too turned and smiled at the camera. They waved.

The man was good-looking. His skin was a familiar shade of brown. Dark, wild hair tumbled to muscular shoulders. Harry idly touched his own hair, finding it to be roughly the same length.

The boy was white. Thin and knobby in his youth, with the appearance of someone growing fast. Like his body was perpetually trying to catch up to too-long arms and legs. Hazel eyes were crinkled in laughter, lips pulled wide to show a gap-tooth set of teeth. Deep blue hair stuck up around his ears. His eyebrows matched.

In question, he looked up. Hermione’s lip trembled.

“What is it?” He turned his gaze down, curiosity turning to a vague dread. Something in that smile was so…innocent. “Did something happen to him?”

“No,” she breathed. “He’s at Hogwarts right now. Just left two weeks ago, actually.”

“Hogwarts?”

It took her a moment to respond. Her arms had wrapped themselves tightly around her torso. “Wizarding school. It’s where we all went.”

“And he’s my…my…”

“He’s your godson. Your son. Teddy.”

So Harry was a father. An Auror, a father…and a drunk, evidently.

“He doesn’t know,” she went on. “We were waiting for you to wake up. I thought it wouldn’t be necessary to worry him.”

He heard it clearly in her voice – if Harry had woken up as himself, then it wouldn’t have mattered. But he hadn’t. Did that mean he was going to have to tell this boy that his own father didn’t remember him?

“Harry,” Hermione said gently. “Harry, it’s not all bad. We’ll try to recover your memories. It’s…entirely possible your amnesia will wear off on its own.”

Again, he heard what went unsaid. Possible…but unlikely. If he could be fixed with magic, the Healers would have done it already.

He set the frame back down, leaving it face up this time. Hermione’s next breath shook.

On instinct alone, Harry walked over and pulled her into his arms. She clutched his shirt and pressed her forehead to his shoulder. It was a bit awkward, holding this stranger. But she clearly needed it, and this was the most he could give her right now.

“I’m sorry.”

Her laugh was wet. “It’s not your fault.”

“I’d be the last to know.” He tried for a joke. “Whatever happened to me, I could’ve walked right into it. Tell me – am I the type?”

When she pulled away, she was smiling again. “You…are exactly the type.”

He smiled back without thinking, and her shoulders relaxed a bit.

“Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”

They walked up the steps. Harry looked around, trying to take in as much detail as he could. There weren’t many pictures around. The ones he did see didn’t give him anything new. It was mostly Hermione, Ron or Teddy.

The next landing had three doors. Hermione stopped at the first and opened it without going in.

“I’ll give you a moment.”

“Thanks.” He went in and turned on the light, shutting the door softly behind himself. This was his bedroom. This was where he slept every night. Of course, he didn’t recognize it, but the state of things didn’t make him feel any better.

The bed was unmade, sheets twisted like he’d just climbed out and left after a night of tossing and turning. Forgotten, the duvet sagged to the floor. Its deep red matched the scarf thrown over the bed post. The closet door hung open, half-covering the window.

The only decoration was another bottle of whisky. It sat empty on the night table, pinning under it a folded sheet of parchment. He picked it up.

 _Harry,_ it read. The script was childlike, looping and halting. _There’s so much to do here! I thought I’d miss London, but I’ve been so busy I forgot to miss the curry at Sindoor. They have curry here. It’s not as good but I’m always so hungry it doesn’t even matter._

_I tried going to see the house elves, like you said. Headmistress McGonagall caught me and Reena, and I thought she’d be cross, but she just said I’d need an Invisibility Cloak to get past her. I know you said I couldn’t have it, but maybe you could just bring it up for a visit? Reena doesn’t believe it’s real._

There was more, but he stopped reading. It felt like an intrusion. These words were meant for someone else.

He hoped Teddy wasn’t waiting on a response.

The bathroom was messy, too, but not unclean. He stepped over a pair of jeans and a crumpled shirt, almost surprised to see his reflection in the mirror. A floating cloud of confused mist would have been more appropriate, but, alas, he was a man.

In the photograph, he’d been wearing sun shades. Now, through the round, thin framed glasses he wore he could see that his eyes were a deep green, slightly too bright against his darker coloring. The beard and moustache were new, as well. Too much of it for only three days – he must have been growing it out.

What stood out even more than his eyes was the strange, jagged scar across his forehead. It started at his hair line and zagged down to his eyebrow. A scar, not a disfigurement. Was _that_ what all those people had seen fit to stare at, then?

The sink was lined with hair product, toothpaste, face wash, and other miscellanea. He picked up a stray elastic and used it to tie his hair back.

Back in the bedroom, he dug through the chest of drawers. Everything looked the same. All the underwear was black, and the most colorful socks were pushed beneath the rest. In that same drawer were a number of medals. He picked one up, turning the gold medallion so it caught the light. Order of Merlin, First Class.

First Class. That was quite important, wasn’t it? Perhaps not, if he’d pushed it in here. He ran his fingers absently through the hair on his chest as he walked into the closet. The robes were disappointingly dark.

As he pulled a maroon sweater over his head, he looked through the window. It was dark out, the street lit by yellow lamps. They were in the city, as evidenced by the glowing sky and nearby towers, but the closely packed townhouses were serene and quiet. A black cat trotted leisurely down the pavement.

The next room over very clearly belonged to a young boy. The walls were plastered with posters of smiling faces or dancing cartoons. One had a flame-haired woman, posing confidently and spinning a broomstick over her shoulder. She winked at him cockily, pointing to the words over her head. _Holyhead Harpies._

He closed it back up and tried the third door. This room was messier than anything yet. A desk took up half of it, but the floor was covered with piles of paper and books. The nearest binder he could read was intimidatingly large.

_Maximizing Defensive Properties While Minimizing Time Elapsed: Or, Flourishing Your Wand About Will Get You Killed. You’re Aurors, Not David Bloody Bowie._

He smiled to himself and shut the door, finding Hermione in the kitchen. She had gotten the dishes to start cleaning themselves, and looked a little guilty when he walked in.

“Sorry, I – “ Her lips tilted in a nervous smile. “You don’t like it when I tidy up in here.”

“Oh. I, erm, don’t mind.” Was he always such a slob? With a kid living here?

Another Floo trip, and he was standing in a much more welcoming space. Fat brown chairs, a long sofa. A furry gray cat that looked balefully up from its spot on a chess board.

“Make yourself at home,” Hermione encouraged, shrugging out of her blazer and throwing it over a kitchen chair. Harry took his boots off as she started the kettle. Pictures hung on the wall in a nicely arranged collage of bold frames. Her and Ron. Ron and Harry. The three of them. Ron and four other men that were clearly family members. Only some of them moved. The rest were muggle pictures, still and staring.

“You must have a lot of questions.”

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask _you_ some things.”

She had the clipboard again. He turned away from the pictures, raising an eyebrow and following her back into the sitting room. A tall lamp near the couch lit up on its own, casting a warm glow over the room. A glance through the window told him they were high up over a busy street. A flat, then.

Hermione sat on the edge of a chair, crossing her legs and looking at him expectantly. Her posture was stiff, formal.

“I’m not sure I have any answers.”

She shook her head. “Well, it’s strange. When you woke up, you didn’t know who I was. You knew about curses, and _obliviating_ , yet you asked if I was a ‘doctor’. Not ‘Healer’.”

“Hm,” he said, sitting. “And _you’re_ using a pen instead of a quill.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “What is your name?”

“Harry Potter.”

“How do you know this?”

“Draco told me.”

When he said that, something disrupted the studious calm over her face. But she schooled it quickly away. “Middle name?”

“I’ve no clue.” He looked at the cat. It blinked at him and abruptly ran out of the room, disappearing through a cracked door.

“Don’t mind him,” Hermione said offhandedly. “It’s James, by the way. Your middle name. How old are you?”

He shrugged.

“Twenty-seven,” she supplied, frowning. “Who is the Prime Minister?”

“Gordon Brown.”

“And the Minister for Magic?”

He shook his head. She didn’t supply an answer this time, writing for a few moments.

“Who was the primary instigator of the Giant Wars?”

He blinked, having to think about that one. Didn’t seem exactly relevant. “…Prong the Pugnacious?”

“Pronk, actually. But I’m impressed.”

Her voice was tight, clipped. Deep brown eyes stared straight through him as her brain worked. When she set the clipboard on the table and leaned forward seriously, he was almost afraid.

“Who is Tom Riddle?”

Clearly, this was a serious question. But the name sparked absolutely nothing in him. When he shook his head, a little line started forming between her eyebrows. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling like a very disappointing student.

“What is an Auror?”

“Ministry officials trained to investigate and apprehend Dark wizards.” The words sprang forth without too much thought. He just _knew_ , even if he didn’t remember when he’d learned it.

“Animagus?”

“Someone who can turn into an animal at will.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are _you_ an Animagus?”

The possibility shocked him a bit. “I dunno. Am I?”

Her bun wobbled as she shook her head. “Doesn’t matter.”

She stood, gesturing for him to do the same. Then she handed him her wand. He took it hesitantly. A warm buzz of magic settled over his right arm. It didn’t feel strange at all. He must have used it before.

“Where is _my_ wand?” He hadn’t wanted to ask before, worried it was lost somewhere in a patch of mud.

“Ron has it. He’ll be here, soon. For now, we’ll use mine.” She walked to the center of the room and squared her shoulders. “Disarm me.”

“You’re not holding anything,” he said, incredulous.

She held out her hand, and the pen flew into it. Wandless, wordless magic. He knew that should impress him. Brandishing it like a wand, she asked him again to disarm her.

He lifted her wand and opened his mouth. Every part of him seemed to know exactly what to do, except there was no word. There was a spell, he knew, but he couldn’t recall it. To cover for the err in memory, he tried the next thing he could think of.

Hermione’s hand spasmed, releasing the pen as the Stinging Hex zapped over her wrist. She gasped.

“Sorry,” he said quickly.

“Don’t be silly. I asked you to,” she muttered, rubbing the spot. “You stung me. That was an…odd choice.”

“I know. I couldn’t remember…”

“What?”

“I know there’s a spell for it. A painless one.”

She picked up the pen and started scribbling on the paper. He peered down, but the words slipped away as soon as she wrote them. Concealed.

“Simple logic. You know there must be a spell because I asked you to do it. It’s not a real memory, is it?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I know it.”

“How do you mean?” She asked, pen poised over the paper as she waited.

“I just…feel like I’ve used it. Quite often, in fact.”

That made her smile, for some reason.

“Could you levitate a pillow for me?”

Relieved he knew this one, Harry pointed the wand at a throw pillow embroidered with a large black _W_. “ _Wingardium Leviosa_.”

It floated up. Hermione glanced over, nodding like she knew he’d be able to do it. “Good.”

“Thanks,” he said drily, setting it back down. Hermione set the pen between her teeth and straightened up, thinking.

“Produce a Patronus.”

He chewed his tongue for a second, then raised the wand. “ _Expecto Patronum.”_

Nothing happened. No great shock.

“It didn’t work,” Hermione said pointedly. “Why?”

He sighed. “Happy memories. I don’t exactly have an abundance of those right now.”

They went on like that for a while. She rotated questions about history, basic magical facts, and simple displays of magic. There weren’t any other spells he couldn’t do, but she did ask him to name the three Unforgivables.

“Cruciatus,” he answered promptly. “Imperius, and…and…”

If they weren’t standing so close, he wouldn’t have seen her eyes flick up to stare at his scar for the briefest of moments. “If you can’t name it, tell me what it does.”

“It kills,” he said uncertainly. It was more a guess than a fact. But Hermione nodded, and she didn’t tell him what it was.

The questioning ended when the lock to the front door turned. Harry paused in his attempt of drawing a Hodag in the air.

Ron had on a thick black sweater and rain jacket, two plastic take-out bags balanced in his arms. His hair was wet, evidence of the rain that had struck up a while earlier.

“Can’t even use a damn umbrella charm,” he muttered, kicking off his shoes. “Why we ever decided to live in a muggle neighborhood is beyond me.”

He looked up at Harry. Then he looked at the drawing.  
  
“Are you actually playing Draw-em-ups?”

Harry waved it away, feeling stupid, and handed Hermione her wand. Seeing Ron reminded him of what he’d forgotten.

“Are you still holding Draco?”

Ron stared at him. Hermione sighed and took the bags from his arms, leaving them to go rustle around in the kitchen. Harry stood there, tense and uncomfortable.

“We’re not… _holding_ him. Anymore. He’s just to stay in the city until we’ve got your side of the story.”

“But I’ve been with Hermione for hours! Why wasn’t I pulled in for questioning? Wouldn’t that have saved some time?”

Ron made a face. “He’s _Malfoy_. We’ve been waiting for him to step out of line for years. And no one wanted to bother _you_ with it. It’s trouble enough trying to keep the press from finding out you were in Mungo’s – “

“Why? Why does it matter?”

“B-Because you’re _Harry Potter!”_

Harry threw his hands up. “That doesn’t _mean_ anything to me!”

“Well, that’s a bloody first!” Ron yelled. Harry bristled, clenching his fists. There was a short, tense silence while they glared at each other. No sound came from the kitchen.

Abruptly, Ron’s shoulders drooped. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, taking a step closer and holding his hands up in surrender.

“I’m – I’m sorry, mate. I’m really mucking up my first impression, yeah?”

Harry shrugged. Ron rocked back onto his heels, sucking his teeth.

“We haven’t fought like that since…” he laughed to himself, shaking his head. “What’s ‘Mione told you? Anything?”

“I know about Teddy. That’s all.”

Ron grimaced. “No need to worry. Yet. I think you wrote him the day of the mission. He won’t know anything’s amiss.”

In spite of himself, Harry relaxed, relieved Ron had thought to tell him that.

“Mum’s flipped, though,” he muttered, gazing into the distance. “She’s owled me five times today, wanting to come see you. She doesn’t know…well, if you get a Howler about it, I’m sorry.”

“Your mum?”

Ron glanced up, troubled. “Yeah, it’s…”

He fell quiet, and Harry somehow knew. No one had mentioned his own parents, nor had any family come to see him. He must not have any. Neither must Teddy, if he was living with his godfather.

“Here.” Ron lifted his sweater and pulled a wand from the two stuck in his waistband. Harry took it eagerly. Strong, familiar heat spread under his skin.

The base of it was etched into the shape of a tree trunk, blending into honey-colored wood. When he adjusted his grip, a miniscule shower of red sparks shot from the end. Ron smiled a lopsided smile.

The smell of food had been spreading through the flat as they spoke, and Harry tried not to run when Hermione called for them to come eat. He was _starved_.

She’d set the take away out on plates. Harry took one of the four chairs, waiting as politely as possible for Ron and Hermione to join him. Ron went to the fridge first, taking two beers and setting one down in front of Harry.

He frowned at it, taking a drink of water instead. “I’m an alcoholic, aren’t I?”

Ron paused in his swigging of his own. “I…wouldn’t go _that_ far. Though, since Teddy left, you…”

He looked at Hermione for help.

“It’s yellow curry,” she said, nodding to the bowl. The sudden change in subject was the first tactless thing he’d seen her do. “Your favorite.”

“From _Sindoor_?”

They both looked shocked. He almost laughed.

“It was in a letter. From Teddy. I found it in my room.”

“Oh.” Ron sounded disappointed. “Yeah, he loves that place.”

“So…” Harry glanced at the clipboard Hermione had surreptitiously positioned next to her plate. “I get to ask questions, now?”

She nodded. Harry took a second to think, very aware of their eyes locked on him. “You both make it seem like…like I’m an important person.”

Ron looked away, blowing out a breath.

“You’re extremely important.” Hermione’s eyes were more pained than her voice let on. “You’ve always hated the word, but you’re something of a…celebrity.”

“ _Celebrity?”_

“More like…war hero,” Ron corrected.

“ _War?”_ Harry repeated. “What war would that be, exactly?”

This silence was loaded. Ron gripped his fork without actually using it. “We’ll have to start from the beginning,” he realized, sounding baffled. His freckles stood out as he went pale. “We have to tell him _everything._ ”

Hermione took a deep breath, staring at her food. “From what I can tell, Harry has forgotten only what directly concerns _him_. History – muggle and wizarding – he seems fine with. Magic…he knows it. Everything we learned in school, everything he learned as an Auror. He couldn’t produce a Patronus, but I suppose that’s to be expected. There were only two spells he couldn’t name.”

She looked at Ron meaningfully. “ _Expelliarmus_ and…the killing curse.”

Ron looked at Harry’s forehead.

“The war…” Harry touched his fingers to the scar. “Is that where I got this?”

Silence. He frowned at them.

“What? Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

With absolutely no warning whatsoever, Hermione burst into tears. Quite violently. Her chair screeched back and she fled the room. Ron’s eyes went very wide.

“Be right back,” he said, squeezing Harry’s shoulder as he ran after her.

Horribly guilty for whatever he’d said to cause _that_ , he found he wasn’t hungry anymore. He paced around the sitting room, trying and failing to catch any conversation from behind the formerly open door.

He turned over the two scraps of information he’d been given – he was in a war, and he was some sort of hero because of it. A celebrity, even. But he was so _young_.

That explained some of the staring at the hospital, at least. It also explained why Hermione hadn’t wanted him out and about. This wouldn’t be easy to hide…especially from Ron’s mum, who already knew something was wrong.

He thought again about Draco. It was clear he wouldn’t be seeing him tonight. Ron was dead set against it – he _hated_ Draco. And if Ron was Harry’s friend, did that mean he was meant to hate him, too?

It was just that last, lingering look. Just before Harry passed out. It wasn’t a look of hate, or even of malice. Harsh words, yes, but with _meaning_. Meaning that Harry couldn’t grasp. Meaning that his mind had been stripped of.

“Sorry about that.”

Harry turned. “Is she alright?”

“Erm. No.” Ron didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. He crossed them, then held them at his sides before settling on pockets.

“Are _you?”_

Ron’s mouth opened, then shut. He pulled his hands from his pockets and gestured to the table. “You remember chess?”

Harry nodded, sitting opposite Ron on the plush carpet. Neither of them spoke while Ron set up the board. He was working himself up to something, Harry knew. His eyebrows kept drawing tightly together, then he’d sigh and shake his head.

“You first,” he prodded. Harry set a pawn forward. After two more moves, Ron cleared his throat.

“I don’t even know…” he sighed, staring at the board like he was seeing something else entirely. His bright blue eyes had gone dark. “The war. Right. Well, it was…a _war._ No one gets out of something like that without being completely fucked in the head.”

One of his pawns met Harry’s. He took it. “I…lost my brother. Fred.”

Harry exhaled, meeting his eyes. “That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.”

Ron laughed shortly, dropping his head to his hand. “You lost him, too. He was your friend. You – “ He stopped, breathing unevenly. Harry didn’t know what to do. He just sat, knotting his fingers together.

“My point, I guess, is that yeah, it took a long time for any of us to recover. But you never have. Not really, I don’t think. It took three years for you to even start laughing again. It was so scary to look at you sometimes, Harry. It’s like there was _nothing_ there. Like I’d lost you, too.”

His words shook Harry to the core, even if he didn’t have enough context to make a real connection. To him, this was just a very sad story. To Ron, it was real trauma.

And Harry was forcing him to relive the worst of it.

“You started trying, for Teddy.” Ron sat up, not meeting his eyes. “You’re a great dad. Really. You give him everything. _Everything_. I’ve never seen a happier kid.”

Harry was relieved to hear that. The empty bottles had been haunting him. “His parents?”

“Dead.” Ron said flatly. “In the war. He was just a baby. Tonks’ – erm – his grandmum looked after him until you were…better. Old enough, I guess. She passed away a few years ago. Natural causes.”

“And mine?”

Ron sighed. “It’s so _complicated_ , mate. Your parents…they died in the first war.”

“The _first_ one?”

“Yeah. Two wars. The same mad prick, both times. You-Know-Who.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know who, actually.”

“No, it’s what we call – “ Ron stopped, laughing suddenly and loudly. He laughed so hard he fell back, laying on the floor with a hand on his stomach. The sound of it warmed something in Harry’s stomach, even if it seemed incongruous. It made him smile, too.

“I can’t bloody believe,” Ron said between gasps of laughter. “I’m telling _you_ about old Moldy himself. _Fuck_ , this is a day.”

Harry leaned forward on his elbows, watching him. “This is really difficult for you.”

“Yeah.” Ron pushed up on his elbows. “Maybe George snuck a Giggle Gummy into my tea this morning.”

“Who’s George?”

Ron sobered immediately, and Harry feared he’d touched upon another sore spot.

“He’s my brother. I’ve got four. George, Percy, Bill, Charlie, and one sister. Ginny.” He looked at Harry in a lost, sad way. “I count you as the fifth.”

“I must be very lucky, then.”

Ron nodded slowly, sniffing hard. They kept playing. Ron didn’t talk again, and Harry knew he wouldn’t. Not tonight. Not about the war and what had happened. Harry wouldn’t make him.

Hermione re-emerged a while later, just as Harry surrendered his king. She was wearing sweats, her hair down and clouded around her head and shoulders. Ron wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pressing his lips to her temple.

“What if you can’t fix me?” Harry asked compulsively. She closed her eyes for a moment.

“I will fix it, Harry. I always do.”

He believed her.

“But. In the meantime…” She chewed her lip. “In the meantime, you need to show up. Be seen. People will start to talk if you just disappear. The amnesia story is contained.” She ticked off with her fingers. “The Healers know. They won’t talk. The other Unspeakables obviously won’t.”

“The team knows,” Ron said. “That’ll be fine. And Shacklebolt. We have to tell mum, though. He’ll never get it past her. Or Ginny.”

“It’s not your mum I’m worried about,” Hermione muttered, ignoring him.

“You mean Fleur,” Ron accused. “She’s not stupid. She wouldn’t tell.”

Hermione frowned dubiously. “Teddy…we have to put that off. I can’t…We can’t do this to him.”

“He deserves to know,” Ron argued quietly.

“He’s _eleven_ , Ron. No. Harry, if you have to write to him, we’ll help you. Tomorrow I’ll take you to the Ministry. Let the other Unspeakables have a look at you. You’ll be seen, and everyone who knew you were in St. Mungo’s will know you’re alright.”

“How,” Harry said, interrupting her rapid flow of words. “Will I carry on a conversation with anyone without them realizing something’s not on?”

Ron smiled wryly. “It won’t be as hard as you think. You’re kind of a massive arse as it is.”

“I am?”

Hermione elbowed him in the ribs. “He means…It’s not your fault, Harry. The papers have terrorized you for years. You don’t like the attention, and it shows. Outside of us, your image is sort of…standoffish.”

Ron snorted. “You hexed a _Prophet_ reporter that found your house. He didn’t have a mouth for three days, it was so strong.”

Whatever expression Harry had on made Hermione smile.

“If I’m so horrible, why do they bother?”

“Because you’re – “ Ron started, then caught himself, smiling sheepishly. “It’s the witch magazines more than anything. The day you find a girl will be a day of national mourning. Molly’ll keel over from happiness, though.”

Harry found that bothered him. Ron had said it so certainly, but Harry wouldn’t have thought witches were his type. Then again, he didn’t know himself very well. “Molly?”

“My mum.”

“What’s she like?”

Ron started laughing again, and after that the mood stayed light. They seemed to actually enjoy telling him about the nice, normal things. Every now and again, though, something innocuous would make them both clam up. Harry’s dating life, or lack of one, made them sad. He guessed it had something do to with his prolonged depression.

He’d dated Ron’s sister Ginny in school, he found out. Ron found a photo of her on the mantle, and Harry was shocked to recognize the woman from Teddy’s poster.

“She’s famous, too,” he guessed, looking at her in a new light. She was very beautiful. Eye catching in the same ways Ron was. Bright orange hair, a wide, easy smile. But Harry wasn’t particularly attracted to her. He didn’t let on his confusion about his sexuality, keeping that deep inside. It didn’t really matter, anyway.

“She’s the Seeker for the _Harpies,_ ” Ron said. Harry nodded benignly.

Ron sat up suddenly, completely serious. “Please tell me you know what that means.”

“I guess you’re talking about sports,” Harry frowned.

Explaining Quidditch took a while. Ron was almost in tears, but Hermione seemed to find some humor in it. Harry had been a Seeker, he learned. First year, too. Like his father. They talked about it for a long time, eating their reheated curry on the floor.

It was…nice. More than nice. Ron and Hermione clearly loved him. He found himself wondering if he deserved it.

The conversation turned to Hogwarts. The way they talked about it, it was quite literally the best place on earth. They kept saying it, and they kept saying that Harry had been happy there. The silent _but_ went unsaid. There was something horrible they still weren’t broaching.

There were new names thrown in here and there. A Neville, a Luna, a Michael. Dean and Seamus and Cho. And Malfoy, too. He was _Malfoy_ , never Draco, and Ron only ever spat his name like it was something dirty. To hear him tell it, Draco had…bullied them? Antagonized, anyway. It sounded like Harry had given as good as he’d gotten.

“So I take it we’re not on the best terms?” He asked, thinking back to that night, recalculating. No. It still didn’t quite add up.

“No!” Ron cried. “He’s a complete git! He’s _evil._ ”

Hermione sighed. “It’s complicated, Harry. In the war…”

Her face turned very vacant for a second, and Ron’s face went hard. He pressed a rough kiss to her head and glanced at the clock. It was three in the morning.

“We’ll carry on tomorrow, yeah?” He said quietly. She nodded.

Ron showed Harry to a room further into the flat, buzzing with nervous energy. “Who knows, maybe you’ll wake up normal and we won’t have to…”

“Yeah,” Harry said.

“This is the guest room, but it’s really just yours,” he said anxiously. “I mean, you stay here a lot. So does Teddy.”

Harry smiled. “That sounds nice. Does he call you Uncle?”

“Yeah,” Ron said eagerly, nodding. “Yeah, he does.”

Silence. Ron’s smile faded.

“Whatever happened to me,” Harry started, wishing he’d thought to ask a little more about the mission. “Dra – Malfoy didn’t do it. If my word means as much as you say it does, he won’t be in any trouble, right?”

Ron hesitated, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “He’s a Death Eater, Harry.”

The words were like a curse. Ron’s whole face darkened when he spoke them.

“Ron –“

“I know. I _know_ you don’t know.” He stepped very close, lowering his voice so Hermione wouldn’t hear. He was very tall, Harry realized. And, right then, looked every bit like the acting Head Auror.

“Death Eaters were the followers of He-Who-Must-Not - of _Voldemort._ The bad guys. They took over the government, and Hogwarts, and tried to round up every muggleborn into these _camps_ ….they killed muggles for _fun_ , and _Malfoy was one of them_.” He was begging Harry to understand.

“His dad was Voldemort’s right-hand man! _Malfoy_ was the one who let Death Eaters into the school. His aunt – “ Ron’s nostrils flared, white hot fury transforming is genial face into something stark. “Hermione was _tortured_. In _Malfoy’s_ house.”

Harry felt his eyes go wide.

“Fuck,” Ron breathed, rubbing his eyes. “It’s not your fault. It’s really not. It’s just so fucking _wrong_ to hear you defending him like this.”

“I understand,” Harry whispered. Little Hermione, being tortured. It was so horribly wrong. “And this is… I mean, it’s common knowledge?”

“Yeah? Of course.”

“How could he work for the Ministry, then? Why isn’t he in prison?”

“Azkaban,” Ron corrected. “He should be. It – you – “

He gave Harry a weird look, then shook his head. “Dolohov is the one who did this to you…we think. He escaped, after the war. Another Death Eater. We’ve been tracking him for months, and we finally found him in one of their old safehouses. I lost you for a second, a _second_ , and then I heard you scream, and you were gone. We couldn’t find either one of you.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit strange, Harry, that Dolohov somehow sent you straight to another safehouse? One that Malfoy just happened to be cursebreaking?”

Harry thought it over very carefully, needing to get his words right. “Okay. Yes, obviously it’s very weird… So why would he have told you where I was? Why bother, if he was going to kill me?”

Ron looked at his scar. “He could have done something to your head.”

“He _didn’t_ – “

“Are you absolutely sure, Harry? Can you say with a hundred percent certainty that you were in your right mind, with your memories gone and your stomach sliced open?”

“Yes,” Harry hissed. Ron clenched his jaw. “He was so shocked to see me. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Respectfully, mate, I disagree. And if you were yourself – “

“Fine,” Harry snapped. He didn’t need another reminder that he wasn’t who he was supposed to be.

Ron opened his mouth, but Hermione walked out of the kitchen, looking at them curiously. Ron straightened up guiltily. Their whispered fight seemed to be over.

“I haven’t seen you two go at it like this in quite some time,” she said miserably, crossing her arms. Harry and Ron looked at each other, then away.

“It’s my fault,” Ron said. “I’m sorry.”

Harry didn’t feel like that was aimed at him, so he didn’t answer. Hermione walked over and hugged Harry tightly. He hugged back automatically. When she reached over and sharply tugged at Ron’s arm, he reluctantly stepped forward and put an awkward arm around Harry, too.

“We’re going to be fine,” Hermione said from between them. Her tone brooked no argument. “It’s hardly the worst thing that could have happened. You need to remember that.”

“Right,” Ron whispered.

Harry stepped back as soon as it seemed appropriate, bidding them goodnight. Hermione’s lip was trembling again as he shut the door, and he felt bad about it, but he needed to be alone.

The room was sparse. There was a rather hideous painting of a unicorn hanging over the bed, made up of garishly bright blues and greens. A peek at the flourish of a signature in the lower corner showed the name ‘Fleur’, which he knew he’d heard that night but couldn’t remember when.

The shower was stocked with the basics – he even thought he recognized some of the labels from his own place. So he started the water and took his clothes off. He was clean already, but it was the false clean of charms and magic. Not water and soap.

Looking at his nude body was strange. He must work out quite a lot to be so lean. The suggestion of abdominals lined his stomach. As did the suggestion of a lot of violence. He had scars all over, including the newest one. Some were so small they had to have been acquired without magic. And he hadn’t had them magically healed, either. It was the one on his forehead that puzzled him. The scar tissue was too bright, the lines too jagged. Was it a curse?

He stepped under the water, letting the steam fill his lungs and force his body to relax. It was a relief to be by himself, but it was also uncomfortable. Well and truly alone, without even the company of his memories or a good sense of personality.

All he knew about himself was what he’d been told. He played Quidditch. He’d fought in a war. He was an Auror. He was quite bad at Potions. Repeating those facts to himself didn’t make them feel any more real.

He didn’t feel depressed, but clearly that had been a long struggle. Overwhelmed and anxious, yes. Not quite…depressed.

The other two felt much more concrete as people. Ron seemed very opinionated. Harry liked him just fine, though, he decided. Hermione was harder to read. He’d seen glimpses of someone clinical, calculating. Not at all like a person who broke down crying all the time. It must just be the situation at hand.

He didn’t bother with a drying charm on his hair. The water soaked into his pillow as he drew the blankets up, holding his wand tightly. This wand knew him very well. It anchored him. In the darkness, he murmured _lumos_ and _nox_ over and over, watching the shadows burst against the faint white light.

He wondered what Teddy was doing. Then he fell asleep.

_____________________________________

When he next snapped awake, it was without any apparent provocation. There was a vague panic in the back of his head. It slipped away as soon as he noticed it.

“ _Tempus.”_

In the air before him, golden numbers shimmered and disappeared. Six in the morning. The room didn’t have windows, so he almost didn’t believe it. His sleep had been deep and dreamless. It wasn’t until he fished his wand out from under the pillow that he realized he’d cast the spell without it.

The bed was comfortable enough, but he wouldn’t be going back to sleep. He pulled on the same clothes from before and left the room. Dishes clinked in the kitchen, and the smell of coffee drew him in. Early morning light filtered in through the curtains.

“Morning,” he said, trying not to startle Hermione. She stood over the stove, already dressed for the day in black robes. The fabric was interesting, catching purple in the light. “You look nice.”

“Oh!” She looked down at herself. “Thank you. Please, sit.”

When he pulled out a chair, the cat jumped off and darted away, making him jump.

“Don’t mind him,” she said again. “Buck only really likes Teddy and George.” She set a mug down in front of him. Black coffee. “Eggs?”

“That’d be great.”

“Ron’s gone already. We’ll meet him after going to Mysteries. Did you sleep well?”

“Great, actually.”

They ate their toast in silence. Hermione watched him. He didn’t see the clipboard, but she was clearly taking notes in her head.

“I thought you might have shaved.”

He ran his hand over the scruff on his chin. “I took a trimming spell to it. Does it…is it – ?”

“It’s very handsome,” she assured him, cheeks darkening.

She transfigured his jeans into black trousers – remarkably well. One leg was just slightly shorter than the other, but he didn’t say anything. He pulled his robes on and tied his hair back. At Hermione’s nod, he stepped into the fireplace.

Everything he knew still wasn’t enough to prepare him for arriving at the Ministry. He managed not to trip this time, but people still stared. It was reflexive, like their necks turned automatically when he entered the room. He met eyes with one short, squirrely man who visibly jumped and scurried away.

The room was huge. Golden arches spanned over his head, and above them a series of glass lifts rose and fell leisurely. People and creatures alike moved past windows overlooking for at least twelve levels. At the center of the large space was a fountain. Clear spouts of water shot out of a golden statue. He wasn’t sure what it was meant to be. Amorphous limbs and curves stuck out of a central blob.

Despite the looks, no one approached him. Hermione wound her arm through his and directed them subtly toward a series of lifts.

“Is that normal?” He asked when the doors shut, skin prickling. Was that his mind playing tricks, or had several people just stopped in their tracks to wait for the next one?

“That was tame,” she pointed her wand at the panel of numbers. The number nine glowed, but the lift moved down instead of up. “Do you know anything about the Department of Mysteries?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“I didn’t expect so.” She tapped her wand to her nose absentmindedly. “I’ve thought about it, and it’s strange. I can’t tell you a single thing, even what you already knew.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story – “

“Summarize,” he said, beyond tired of the long story excuse. Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“We broke into it, during the war. It was…just, ask Ron. As an Unspeakable, I’ve taken an oath of silence regarding any and all research conducted inside.” He nodded. “I’ll have to obliviate you when we leave.”

“Okay – wait, _what?”_

The lift doors slid open. He wasn’t sure how far they’d traveled, but this floor was dark. The walls were literal black stone, and there was only one door at the end of a short hall. It was black as well, silver script shining in the center.

_To those that seek forbidden knowledge; don’t._

There was no handle.

“I’m not going in there.”

“You don’t have to.” Her heels clicked loudly on the floor. It was so clear Harry saw his reflection as he looked down. “Really, you don’t.”

She stopped in front of the door, watching him.

“You think taking _more_ of my memories away is a good move?”

“You come down here with me quite often, Harry.”

“What for?”

Her brown eyes glowed in the faint light. No visible source for it, he noticed. No torches or lamps. “I ask your advice on things, now and then. You helped us with…research. Regarding Parseltongue.”

“One, I don’t know what that means. And two, I let you obliviate me on a _regular basis?”_

“I’m quite good at it,” she sounded a little defensive. “No lasting damage. And I always get your informed consent.”

She pointed her wand at the wall, and a roll of parchment unrolled itself from thin air, a quill appearing in Harry’s hand. Throwing her a doubtful look, he stepped toward it, squinting in the low light.

“I, Harry James Potter, Order of Merlin, First Class, Head Auror of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Third Chair to the Hogwarts Board of Governors…” He looked over his shoulder, grimacing. “That’s quite a mouthful.”

“I’m Second Chair,” she said proudly. He turned back to the scroll.

“…Hereby release all possession of any memories and experiences gained while visiting the Department of Mysteries. Such memories and experiences are limited to questioning, consumption of food and non-food materials, relinquishing of personal fluids and epithelial cell samples. _Cell samples?”_

“That’s just left over from last time. Don’t worry – you agreed to it. Today will just be…oh, I suppose questioning. Diagnostic magic. That sort of thing.”

The words on the parchment changed as she spoke. He didn’t like the look of _‘that sort of thing’_ as something he’d be signing himself over to.

“You can say no to anything you like, Harry. At any time. This is just giving me the right to obliviate you after.”

She seemed quite confident, which made him feel like he was overreacting. Before he could think too hard, he signed his name. The parchment vanished the instant he lifted the quill – which also disappeared – and the door swung open.

He took a step toward it, then stopped. It was closed again. Hermione had moved – she now stood closer to him, in the process of sticking her wand in her robes.

“Wait – “

“It’s over.” She looked up, smiling sympathetically. “We were in there for three hours.”

“No,” Harry blinked, astonished. He looked down at himself. Nothing had changed…but then, he wouldn’t exactly know if he was missing epithelial cells, would he? “What did we do?”

“Can’t say.” She took his arm again, pulling him back toward the lift he’d _just_ gotten off of. “You had a pleasant time, I think. Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?”

“…No?” Just a vague disorientation.

“Good.” She pointed them to level two. The lift started a slow rise. “I think we made some real progress.”

“How’s that?”

Her smile wavered. “I’ll know more after further testing.”

“I have to do that _again?”_

“I’m afraid so.”

The doors slid open, onto a well-lit, normal looking reception area. Hermione didn’t follow him.

“I’ll see you tonight. Down the hall, take a left.”

He nodded, hiding his uncertainty as he stepped off. She still had a smile plastered over her face, but just before the doors shut it dropped away. For a brief second, she looked distraught.

A small elderly woman smiled at him as he walked past, going down the only hall available.

“Mister Potter.”

He nodded, setting his shoulders in a way he hoped looked normal. “How are you?”

Her head shot up from where she’d already looked down at her stack of papers. “Pardon?”

Harry faltered. “I said how are you?”

“Oh.” She placed her hand over her heart. “Oh, quite well, thank you.”

“Have I never asked you that before?” He blurted before he could stop himself. There was no other explanation for her apparent shock.

“Well, not in so many words, I – I suppose.”

“Ah.” This didn’t bode well. “Well, I’d better be off.”

She looked at him over her glasses, eyes wide. He fled.

The hall was long, lined with closed doors. A memo darted past his ear and zoomed through a gap at the top of _Wizengamot Administration Services. Misuse of Muggle Artefacts_ had a Jack-O-Lantern wreath stuck to its door. As he walked past, a pumpkin pasty shot out of the crooked mouth, hitting him in the chest. He picked it up, moving past _Hit Wizard Subdivison_ and _Department of Intoxicating Substances_ before reaching the end. To his direct left was _Auror Office._ The voices were loudest just behind it, and he stopped to listen.

“ – to find him. It’s completely useless if we can’t veritaserum. And he’s an Occlumens – “

“But Shacklebolt said – “

“I know what Shacklebolt said.” That sounded like Ron. “So we can’t veritaserum. We _can_ keep him in London, monitor his communications – “

Another voice started to interrupt him, but everything went quiet as Harry opened the door, walking inside with more confidence than he felt. The room was cramped, with four cubicles taking up the corners and a central, long table covered in filing folders and papers.

“Harry.” Ron shot up from his chair, robes billowing. “Hey.”

There were four other people. Two men and two women. All staring, naturally.

“Hi.”

Ron cleared his throat. “I suppose some…introductions are in order.”

The woman that appeared the oldest went first. Dark hair was pulled back into a severe bun, making her sharp features all the more intimidating. She said her name was Debra. The other woman, Élise, wore a black hijab. A good looking black guy was named Dean, and the man next to him was Seamus. He remembered those names.

Harry nodded to each of them as they went, noticing that they all wore robes that matched Ron’s. Black with red stripes around the collar. Was he meant to be wearing those? Hermione hadn’t said anything.

“So you all know?” He asked, just to break the quiet. They nodded solemnly. He couldn’t look anywhere without meeting a wide pair of eyes.

“We’re glad you’re okay,” Seamus offered. Dean shifted uncomfortably.

“You’re all unbelievable,” Ron snapped, rather harshly. “I said act _natural_ when he got here.”

“This is natural,” Debra droned, arms crossed. Ron rolled his eyes.

“C’mon, Harry. This was – _is_ – your office.”

The one other door entered them into an office almost identical to the one at Harry’s house. Smaller, but just as messy.

“I haven’t touched anything,” Ron said, shutting the door behind them. “ _Muffliato.”_

Harry stepped around a pile of binders and sat in the rolling chair. Beyond the papers and quills – one half-chewed – were three photo frames hung on the wooden desk. One was of him and Teddy, sitting in his living room. Teddy stretched a roll of parchment, brandishing it toward the camera proudly. The text was blurry, but Harry saw the word _Hogwarts._

The second was him, Ron and Hermione. Their wedding day, it looked like. Ron tried to coax a shorter-haired Harry into the frame. It looked like he was politely refusing. Hermione gestured, too, but still he tried to ease himself away.

It wasn’t a nice photo. Why would he display it?

The third was a couple. He didn’t recognize them, but he knew exactly who they were. The man looked like him, and the woman had bright green eyes.

“Let’s see,” Ron was saying, half-sat on the one spot of paper-less desk. “Dean and Seamus are our mates from school. We do pub nights most weekends. Élise will tag alone every now and then, but she’s a lightweight so it’s touch and go. And Gallahey – that’s Debra – she thinks were all idiots, I expect. Not you, so much. At least, I’ve never heard her call _you_ a moon-faced skrewt.”

“Ron.” Harry looked away from the wedding photo. “Am I a total dick?”

That stopped him short. Then he shrugged. “Honestly? A bit.”

“Why are you friends with me?”

“It’s an act. With ‘Mione and me – and Ted – you’re just Harry. The rest…” Again, with the bloody scar. “Well, no one holds it against you. Much.”

“What gives me the right to act like this? Do _you?_ ”

Ron snorted. “I wouldn’t get away with it.”

“Ron.”

“I know.” He nodded his head at the door. “We’re gonna give you a…crash course. On the war.”

 _Finally_. “Okay,” he nodded. “Now?”

“I was just about to go gather some lunch. Thought you could use a look around in here. Maybe it’ll jog something, eh?”

That seemed unlikely. What information he could see already meant very little. “What exactly is the plan, here, Ron? I can’t be Head Auror. Not like this.”

Ron nodded once. “I thought…”

Harry raised an eyebrow, waiting. Ron hemmed and hawed about something, visibly nervous. Again, Harry wondered just how much of an arse he’d been, before.

“I thought I’d take over. Unofficially. Just until you’re better. You can still help out around here, or not. I guess it’s up to you. “

“I…I don’t see how I can be of much help.”

“One step at a time, I suppose,” Ron said evasively. “Did Hermione say anything?”

“Nothing at all.”

Ron laughed. “Sounds about right. Okay.” He clapped his hands together, standing. “Be back in ten.”

Alone again, Harry looked around. The papers were mostly reports from subsections of the Auror office. He swiveled, sighing at the mass of information. Most piles must have had balancing charms attached. It felt like he’d been trying to brick himself in.

There was one shelf, up high against the wall, that burst with color. He stood, peering up at the strange packaging. There were several boxes of sweets with names that he didn’t…remember, exactly, but recognized. Even more alarming were the names he didn’t understand. _Puking Pastilles, Hair of the Wolf,_ and _Umbridge; the Scent for Supremely Sinister Spinsters._ That was only to name a few.

A card had been strategically placed over the _Ravish-me-Red Re-Upping Potion_ artwork of a cartoon man looking down at his crotch in surprise. Harry reached up to look at what it said. As his hand entered the line of sight of a rubber chicken, though, it sprang to life, dancing across the shelf and squawking what sounded like the Irish national anthem.

“ _Gah!”_ Harry said in surprise, yanking his hand away. “ _Silencio!”_

It didn’t work. The chicken actually got _louder._

He flinched when his office door opened. Seamus stuck his head in, grinning.

“Something wrong, boss?”

“I can’t turn it off,” Harry blustered, humiliated. Seamus waved him out, shutting the door against the onslaught and casting a _muffliato maxima._

“It’ll go on like that until someone sings all of _Weasley is Our King_ ,” Dean said, also smiling.

“It’s awful,” Harry summed up, sinking into an empty chair.

“That’s George for you.”

“Ron’s brother,” Harry remembered. Seamus nodded, sitting next to Élise. “Charming.”

“Yeah,” Seamus chortled. “I will _never_ forget the look on your face when he sent those shield amulets that turned us all deaf for an hour.”

“He _what?_ Isn’t that some sort of crime?”

“Should be,” Debra muttered.

“He’s not allowed to owl us directly anymore.” Élise’s deep red-painted lips pulled into an admiring smile. “That’s when the chicken showed up.”

Harry glanced at his office door warily, somewhat glad he hadn’t actually touched anything on that shelf. It must be up high for good reason. “Does he hate me?”

“On the contrary.” Dean said, glancing at Seamus. “It means he likes you.”

“No one ever said you were lucky.”

Élise gave Debra a reproachful look, but Harry decided he liked her deadpan. It didn’t necessitate a response.

“Do I get along with all of you? I mean, as a boss.”

There was a short, awkward silence. Dean flinched like someone had kicked him under the table. “Yeah! Yeah. You’re the best Auror the Ministry’s seen in years.”

Best Auror. Not best boss. Not even _good_ boss.

“Ron said we went to school together? What was that like?”

Élise rolled her eyes. “I went to Beauxbatons, but you lot talk about Hogwarts constantly.”

“And I’m too old to have known any of you in school,” Debra added. “Knew Bill and Charlie.”

Dean crossed his arms on the table, scratching at his close-cropped black hair. “We all met first year. You, me, Seamus, Ron and Neville shared a dormitory. Proper fun, that was.”

He gazed at Seamus as he said it, and winked.

Ron returned with an armful of paper-wrapped sandwiches. Harry’s was ham and cheese, and he wasn’t at all hungry for it. There was scattered conversation, mostly about people and things Harry didn’t know, but everyone seemed sort of distracted.

Finally, Ron crumpled his wrapper up into a ball, wiping a spare bit of crumb from his mouth. “Alright, I suppose I’ll start us off.”

Harry wound his fingers together in his lap so he wouldn’t tap them against the wood. He understood that the war had been bad, but did it really need so much ceremony? It had been ten _years!_

“Blood purity,” Ron said, watching him. At Harry’s lack of a response, he went on. “I’m a pure-blood. That means I don’t have any muggles in my ancestry. Hermione’s parents are both muggles. That makes her a muggleborn. Anyone in-between is a half-blood. Got it?”

Harry nodded, wondering which of those he was.

“We talked about Hogwarts last night. You remember how the houses were named after the founders? Well, Salazar Slytherin was obsessed with blood purity. Muggleborns almost never get sorted into Slytherin house. Most pureblood families always do. Like Malfoy.”

Harry thought he’d emphasized that name a little too hard, but he just nodded.

“Flash-forward to the 1970’s, and this…man…comes to power. Only he’s not quite a man, but I’ll get to that. He and a load of his followers – Death Eaters – start trying to spread this pureblood-supremacy shite. It was horrible. They infiltrated the Ministry, used Imperious on the most influential people…you can imagine.

“When it was getting really bad, Dumbledore started gathering everyone he thought he could trust. They called themselves the Order of the Phoenix.”

“Dumbledore was the Headmaster of Hogwarts,” Seamus cut in. Harry nodded, doing his best to keep up as, over the next hour, his team told him about the war. Some of it, Élise and Debra could tell. Logistics, public opinion. But it was Ron, Dean and Seamus that had been at Hogwarts with him.

Sometimes Ron would cut one of them off if a tangent grew too long or Harry had a question. There was just _so much._ He’d been thinking of it as a story, the night before. Now he realized it was more like an epic.

The prophecy, the murder of his parents, growing up with his extended – apparently horrible – muggle family. Being terrorized every year by Dark Wizards and somehow escaping. It seemed really unlikely that it was a lie, but he found it all a bit too fantastical to believe.

He’d lost his godfather in the second war, he learned. Ron almost completely skipped over it, just as he did when he got the part where his brother was killed. Then Teddy’s parents – Tonks and Lupin, he called them. Tonks was a metamorphagus. It explained Teddy’s blue hair in the photos.

When they got to the end of the war, and Harry’s extremely heroic defeat of Voldemort, he almost couldn’t take in any more information. He got the gist – he wasn’t _in_ the war. He _was_ the war.

“So that’s why we got to be Aurors without our N.E.W.T.S.. And that’s why you basically do whatever you want. No one in their right mind would tell you otherwise.”

Clearly, they all were waiting for him to have some sort of reaction. He just didn’t know what to _say_.

“Keep going,” he said, glancing around. “What happened after I killed him?”

Ron frowned at Debra, who leaned around Dean to address Harry.

“After the war, which was your fight, the Ministry went through…serious reform. Very few of us kept our jobs, or even wanted to stay.” Her face darkened. “Our fight was with the Dementors. They were a big problem. They stopped attacking civilians, but no one was going to forget what they did. So, we corralled them in Azkaban, while it was empty. No one knew how to…kill them. Not permanently.”

“It was Unspeakable Granger,” Élise said excitedly. “Only their department knows the specifics, of course, but it was…revolutionary. They told our team the incantation, and it _discorporated_ the Dementors.”

Debra sounded even more stoic after Élise’s quick, Belgian accent. “She makes it sound easier than it was. One spell alone took everything out of you, and then you had to do it again. For _hours_. Surrounded by those…” She shuddered.

Ron nodded, his orange eyebrows drawn together. “While they were doing that, we were tracking down every escaped Death Eater we could find. Numbers weren’t a problem – nearly every person who’d fought at Hogwarts offered to help.

“You-Know-Who’s main men were our biggest concern. Avery, Nott, Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle…they’re all dead or in Azkaban, now. Except for Dolohov and Macnair.”

“And Draco,” Harry added, deciding not to admit he had no idea what a Dementor was. Dean and Seamus both looked up sharply at him.

“ _What_ did you call him?”

“ _Draco_ was pardoned,” Ron said tightly, staring at the table. “So was his mother.”

Harry ignored their continued startled looks. Even Élise’s eyes were wide. “But you said he was a Death Eater.”

Ron glared at him, and Harry had to bite back an irritated outburst. What was his deal?

“Erm.” Dean looked between them warily. “You testified. At his trial.”

Harry forced his eyes away from Ron’s. “Did I?”

“Yeah. I think we were all a bit…surprised. Anyway, he went off the grid for a while. The next time anyone saw him, he was cursebreaking the old Death Eater safehouses. Shacklebolt’s idea.”

He was relieved. He’d testified for Draco – that had to count for something. Defending him now wasn’t _completely_ out of character, like Ron made it seem.

“I assume he’s given us information about the men we’re looking for.”

Ron shook his head. “You had that idea before, but we decided against working with him. He already told everything he’s willing to tell. Just after the trial.”

“And since I was attacked?” He recalled the conversation he’d walked in on. “You think he was involved, don’t you?”

“We did,” Debra said. “We do. But Shacklebolt put the kibosh on any magical interrogation, so…we wait. We watch.”

It didn’t sit right with Harry. Everything he knew about himself told him to trust his gut. “That’s what he was doing the night he found me? Cursebreaking in that old house?”

“Yep.” Seamus cast his eyes up, thinking. “That would have been his…fourteenth? It’s a big help, actually, as it’ll be one less place for them to hide. We think Dolohov must have Apparated there, with you, but got spooked before he could…well.”

“Finish the job,” Debra said for him.

“I understand.” Harry chewed the inside of his cheek, hesitating. It was silly to feel like he was overstepping, right? He was their boss until recently. “Only I woke up totally alone, maybe a half a mile from the house. It’s only chance I found it at all.”

Ron straightened. “You never said that.”

“You didn’t ask! I’ve been trying to tell – “

“You didn’t think it was _important?”_ Ron cried, matching his volume. Debra put a hand on his shoulder, forcing him back into his seat.

“Stop yelling at him! Christ, are we back in second year?”

“More like fourth,” Dean said under his breath. Ron shot him a very dark look.

“If he was alone with Harry, what scared him off?” Élise scribbled something out with a quill, oblivious to the tension. “Maybe he was hurt, too. Disoriented.”

“Maybe it was a rendezvous.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to glare at Ron. “I think you’re wrong about him.”

“Yeah? What do you know? You don’t even remember your own mum’s name – “

“Hey!” Dean said sharply. Élise gasped. “Merlin, Weasley, what the hell?”

Ron looked shocked, like even he couldn’t believe what he’d said.

“It’s fine.” Harry stood, needing some air. “He’s right. I don’t.”

He was halfway down the hall when Ron caught up.

“Obviously, I’m not doing anyone any good here,” Harry said quickly. Ron came to a stop in front of him, apology written all over his face. “I’ll just go home, yeah? Let you all do your jobs.”

“Harry, I’m _sorry_ ,” Ron said, sounding genuine. “I shouldn’t get – I shouldn’t’ve said that. If you really want to…we can ask Malfoy for help.”

He spat the words, almost. Like they stuck in his throat. But it was clearly an effort. “It’s not up to me. I don’t know what to do, I just have this…feeling.”

Blue eyes moved over his face, anger turning soft. “The last time you had a feeling about Malfoy, you thought he might be becoming a Death Eater. And you were right.”

Harry opened his mouth to ask about that, but the memo that had just fluttered past them had turned in its path, instead stopping over Ron’s head and gently falling. He caught it, eyes going wide.

“Lifts. Now.”

“What?”

Ron dropped it like he was burned, then started pushing him. Harry looked over his shoulder at the crimson red envelope flying madly after them. It was smoking. He knew it was a Howler.

Ron cast a slowing hex at it, which only barely worked. The black smoke grew thicker as he all but dragged Harry into the slowly opening lift door.

“I’m sorry, Madame Rashida!” Ron cried, pressing the wand madly against the number two. “ _Protego!”_

The envelope hit the shield hard, bursting into flame. The doors slid shut just as a shrill voice boomed through reception. They flinched against the sheer volume of it, backs hitting the wall.

“ _RONALD WEASLEY, YOU WILL ANSWER MY OWL THIS INSTANT – “_

“ _Silencio,”_ Ron gasped. The voice cut off.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Harry asked, bewildered and a little afraid. Ron took a deep breath and stowed his wand with a trembling hand.

“My mother.”


	2. Owl Post

“She’s going to treat you like a sick person. Whatever you do, don’t take any Pepper-Up.” Ron walked out of Harry’s closet with a red, knitted sweater emblazoned with a black H. “Put this on.”

Harry took it and dropped it to his still-unmade bed. “Another red sweater?”

“Gryffindor colors, mate,” Ron said from inside quickly. He was doing great at _not_ talking about his explosion earlier at work. Harry got the sense it was well practiced. “I know she got you a pair of boots last Christmas. Did you throw them out? I wouldn’t blame you…”

Harry didn’t bother answering, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “I’m not sure I’m up for this.”

Ron tripped coming back out, catching himself on the doorway with a muttered curse. “D’you mean it? That might actually be…easier. If you’re not there, I’ll take the brunt.”

Harry didn’t want that. As scared as he was after that Howler, he wouldn’t feel any better sitting here while Ron dealt with everything. “Close with them, am I?”

The answer seemed obvious.

“They’re family,” Ron confirmed. The slightly chagrined two words that didn’t need the ‘our’ in between. They were Harry’s family, too.

“Right.” He pulled the new sweater on, feeling naked without his robes. “Let’s go.”

“Relax, mate,” Ron said with a forced cheeriness, reaching around to gently pull the elastic from Harry’s hair. It was such an intimate gesture that Harry froze, surprised. Ron didn’t seem to notice. He fluffed Harry’s curls a bit, at some invisible point deciding they looked good enough. “At least the food’ll be good.”

“And my hair needs to be down?” He asked pointedly. Ron blinked and stepped back.

“Well, you’re the only one she doesn’t gripe at to cut it off. Thought it might soften the blow.” He went downstairs, leaving Harry to follow, a bit shaken. It was early afternoon, the light outside already edging toward gold as the sun descended.

“Is Hermione coming?”

Ron looked all around, distracted. “Hm? Oh, yeah. She’ll meet us there. Where’s your Floo powder gone?”

“ _Accio,_ Floo,” Harry said, and a small container floated out from behind a photograph. Ron snatched it out of the air and lit a fire, his nervous energy infectious.

“Ready?” He threw a pinch into the flames. “Just say _The Burrow,_ alright?”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Ron said unnecessarily, taking a steadying breath. “One last thing. Don’t…Don’t stare.”

“At what?”

Ron rolled his wide shoulders. “Erm, you’ll see.”

He stepped into the grate and vanished. Harry took another pinch and tossed it in. As the colors turned, he briefly considered just putting it out and going to bed.

“The Burrow,” he sighed, putting one foot into the warm fire. “What the hell is a Burrow?”

The simple quiet of his home made the next feel quite chaotic. He had only just stepped out of the network when he was set upon by a squat older woman with extremely curly white and ginger hair.

“Oh, Harry!” She cried, throwing herself around his middle. Her head came up to his shoulder. “How dare you keep an old woman in suspense like this!”

Harry, startled, patted her back. The walls of the room caught his eye first. Every blank space had a framed photo stuck to it, creating the rather dizzying effect of a whole lot of ginger heads smiling at him. He didn’t have time to take it all in before the woman was holding him at arm’s length with a frown.

“Mum,” Ron said tiredly, standing to the side.

“Four days,” she chastised, fussing with his hair just like Ron had and clapping her hands lightly to his cheeks. Her voice was a much warmer, quieter version of the Howler’s. Though perhaps just as shrill. “ _Four days_ , and all I hear is that you’re in St. Mungo’s! Not allowed to visit – no one sees fit to pass along the canister of soup I – “

 _“Mum.”_ Ron pried her away from a thoroughly reprimanded Harry. “Let him _out_ of the fireplace.”

“Oh, I’ll have words with you, later.” She took Harry’s arm and pulled him toward where the rest of the voices were.

“Mum – “ Ron tried again.

“Harry, dear, sit. You must be hungry.” With incongruous strength, she pushed him down into a chair.

It was a kitchen. The table was long, the room as overwhelming as the other had been. Every surface – walls, tables, counters – was lined and dripping with trinkets. Food, photos, books, newspapers, works of child-like art. One had a brown and black scribble that he guessed was meant to be a chocolate pie. _Hagrid,_ it read underneath.

Gas lamps with magical fires inside hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly every time someone took a step. The large windows showed a sprawling, lush garden and some tree-lined countryside.

“Mum, hold up – “

“Can we _eat_ now?” A freckled woman fell heavily into the seat beside Harry, patting his shoulder affectionately. Ginny. “Hey, Har. You all better?”

“Erm,” he said, but she was already leaning over the back of her seat to address her mother.

“I’m literally starving to death, woman!”

Two more red heads had been bent in conversation at the far end of the table. One of them looked like an older, shorter version of Ron. Thick muscles bulged under the skin of his arms. Skin marked with very severe burn scars.

His face was kind, if irritated, but that expression melted into a smile as he looked over. “George’s trying to make me test another one of his dissolving contact lenses. Will you _please_ tell him how quickly the Ministry’d shut down his – “

“What exactly happened, dear?” Molly asked, speaking over her son as she rushed over with a levitated plate. “Concussion? Nasty curse? Whatever it was, no one thought to feed you a good meal – “

“Hey-O!” An older man stepped through the garden door and peeled off thick leather gloves. His lined face was smudged with dirt. “My boys!”

“Christ, Mother,” Ginny groused, pushing their water glasses out of the way as a heavy plate was sat down. Potatoes and roast. It smelled amazing.

Ginny pulled it away promptly, stabbing a fork into the roast and taking a bite.

“Ginevra Weasley!”

“Sorry, mum. Harry can wait.” She winked at him as she took another great bite of potato. Harry smiled weakly, glancing up at the one who must be George. He slouched low in his chair, feet up on the table, whittling something with a short blade as he argued with the shorter one. Long, shaggy hair almost covered up the jagged pink curse scars that marred the skin where his ear should have been.

He caught Harry staring, raising the knife threateningly.

“What? Can’t even say ‘hi’, now?” He called. Harry opened his mouth, shutting it again as a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

“How goes it, Harry?” Ron’s father smiled down at him.

“Erm, I’m well, thanks,” Harry answered. Molly set another plate down, absently _S_ _courgifying_ her husband’s face.

“Any word on Dolohov?”

Harry hesitated. A panicked glance at Ron showed him waylaid by yet another, skinnier brother.

“We’ve been so worried,” Mrs. Weasley complained, levitating a forgotten piece of bread to his plate. “Imagine poor Teddy having to hear – “

“Mum,” Ginny scolded through a full mouth. “Don’t be _morbid_.”

“What, dear? He’s all right, now – “

“ _Actually,”_ Ron said, loudly enough for the room to go quiet. “Actually, he’s not all right.”

All eyes turned to Harry. Ginny stopped eating. He did his best not to sink straight into the floor.

“What on Earth do you mean?” The skinny, bespectacled brother asked irritably.

Ron rolled his eyes. “If you’d let me _speak_ – oh, for fuck’s sake,” he snapped as the garden door opened again.

“ _Ronald_ ,” Molly snapped at the same time, pointing her wand. A stinging hex zapped Ron on the arm. “Watch your tongue in my house!”

“Relax, mum,” George said. “It’s just fucking Fleur!”

“Oh, you – !”

“Hullo.” The woman wasn’t a Weasley, clearly, but with her was _another_ brother, and Harry didn’t know exactly which one of them he was meant to not stare at.

The man was almost the height of the door, with heavy muscle that seemed hulking on his large frame. It was his face that stood out, though. Scars. All over, and less delicate than George’s. It made Harry think of an animal attack.

The woman stood out for the opposite reason. She was beyond just beautiful. Beautiful felt like an insult. Though she wore understated clothes, her long hair and smooth white skin seemed to glow, emanating a halo of absolute perfection. The baby balanced on her hip was just as perfect, its large cheeks flushed pink from the wind. A ruffled silver dress complimented a tuft of bright red hair.

Hermione was right behind them, hair and eyes wild.

“Did you tell them yet?” She asked anxiously, stepping around the baby to stand at Ron’s side.

“Tell us what?” Ron’s dad asked, wiping bread crumbs on his shirt.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Sorry, ‘Mione. I’ve been trying to get a word in.”

“What’s he talking about, Harry?” The brother next to George asked, frowning. “What happened?”

Ginny put a hand on his arm, looking beseechingly at Ron.

“Harry was attacked,” Ron said. “As you all know. By Dolohov.”

It was quieter than Harry would have thought possible. Ron’s mother put a protective hand on his other arm, gripping tightly.

“He’s fine, physically. It’s just…” Ron faltered, and Harry could see why. The concern in the room was palpable. No one moved. Harry was so tense he was nearly shaking.

“Harry’s lost his memories,” Hermione said, looking around regretfully. “All of them.”

After a tense moment, the noise ratcheted back up. Confused, this time.

“Not _all_ of them,” Ginny said, disbelieving.

“Lost? What’dya mean, _lost?”_

“You’re supposed to _protect_ him, Ronald!” His mother cried, gripping Harry with bruising force.

“It’s not _my_ fault!”

Harry felt a bit like someone caught in a hurricane as everyone voiced their doubt. Hermione crossed her arms wearily.

“If you could all keep your voices down, I’m sure Harry would appreciate it.”

Again, everyone looked at him. He frowned into his potatoes.

“What exactly has he forgotten?” Ron’s father asked.

“Everything,” Harry said, relieved his voice didn’t crack. “I’m sorry, but when I woke up I didn’t even know my own name.”

This silence stretched out. Horrible, meaningful silence. He knew what they were all thinking. Ron’s mum pulled out a chair, sinking into it and staring at him with glistening eyes. This was a mother figure to him. He knew this couldn’t be easy for her, and his heart ached. For all of them.

“Zis is temporary, no?” The blonde woman said quietly, eyes wide. Her baby babbled quietly. “You can fix zis?”

“I am trying.” Hermione looked at Harry when he said that. “I just need time.”

“Well, go on,” Ron gestured around brusquely. “Introduce yourselves.”

Another shocked silence.

“Molly,” Ron’s mother finally said, her smile watery. “But you always call me Mrs. Weasley, no matter how many times I tell you not to.”

“Ginny.” She squeezed his arm.

“Charlie,” the short one said. The bespectacled one was Percy, Ron’s father was Arthur, the tall one and woman were Bill and Fleur. Harry did his best to commit each name to memory.

“Where’d George get off to?” Charlie asked, looking around. The seat next to him was vacant.

“Probably planning an _explosive_ first impression,” Bill grinned, leaning across the table to shake Harry’s hand. “Keep an eye out, Har.”

“I will,” he said, remembering the chicken.

And, just like that, everyone snapped out of it, filling the empty seats and running full-speed into their own conversations. Hermione and Molly kept sending him worried glances, but they were the only ones.

“Here,” Fleur said, lowering her baby into Harry’s lap. He held it awkwardly. “Victoire will help.”

She smoothed a hand over Harry’s head and smacked a kiss to his cheek that left him a bit dazed.

“Oh, close your mouth,” Ginny smirked, sipping water. “She’s part Veela.”

“That explains it.” He lifted the baby up so it’s chubby feet stood on his thighs. Some drool leaked down its chin as it smiled at him, all gums and big blue eyes. “Victoire, was it?”

Victoire babbled a laugh, and something in Harry’s chest unclenched. Maybe it was the Veela genes, but he did feel a bit calmer. She reached out to grab at Harry’s nose with fat fingers. He laughed.

“Here, give me a turn.” Ginny leaned over to take the baby, whispering in his ear. “You’d better start eating before mum has a conniption.”

He let her take Victoire, noticing Molly watching him from the kitchen. Howlers on the mind, he shoved a forkful of roast into his mouth.

It was incredible. He almost moaned as flavor exploded across his tongue, and Ron gave him a knowing look, tucking into his own plate and yelling across the table at Charlie about dragons. It wasn’t that Harry was being left out, exactly. It was that he wasn’t being pressured to join.

“So.” Ginny set Victoire on her lap, spooning some potato into her mouth. “I can’t think of a thing to say to you, honestly. Catch any good telly recently?”

He smiled. “Haven’t had the chance.”

“ _Gah!”_ Victoire cried happily.

Ginny patted her head, giving Harry a sly look. “She has Fleur’s grace with words.”

He laughed again, listening in on Percy and Bill’s conversation about Gringotts and cursebreaking, Fleur joining in every now and again. Seemed contentious, but he noticed that Percy inevitably ended up agreeing with whatever she said. Something about her felt oddly familiar. He couldn’t pin it down.

Victoire distracted him by coughing up a miniature explosion of potato. Directly onto his sweater. Ginny chortled as Fleur shot up.

“You cannot feed her so much so quickly! She is only _half_ a Weezley.”

“Gee, thanks, _sis_ ,” Ginny stood and passed a gurgling Victoire across the table. Ron held a protective hand over his food.

“Keep that thing from leaking into the roast!”

“Oh,” Fleur cooed, wiping at the baby’s mouth with a napkin. “How will you ever forgive me for marrying into zis English family?”

Ginny looked down at Harry and burst into laughter. “Come with me. I’ll help you clean up.”

He stood carefully, trying not to look at the mess on his shoulder.

“You can’t use magic on mum’s sweaters. Whoever sells her this yarn must really hate our family personally, because you can _only_ get stains out the old fashioned way.”

Harry only half listened, getting a better look at the sitting room as they walked past. It was the loveliest place he’d ever seen; misshapen chairs and two couches took up most of the space, a low fire still crackled, and an old record player sat waiting, the needle just hovering over a black vinyl.

There was a bathroom at the base of a sharply-inclined staircase. She started yanking his sweater over his head before he’d even stepped over the threshold.

“Do I always let people manhandle me like this?” He asked, pulling his undershirt into place and making sure no vomit had gotten into his hair. “Or is it just your family?”

She flipped shiny red hair over her shoulder and held the sweater under running water, using her wand to lather in a purple soap. “Who’s to say I’m not pressing my advantage?”

“Advantage? Do you mean getting my clothes off or washing them for me?”

Ginny looked a little startled at that. He hastened to apologize – he hadn’t meant to be so suggestive, but she broke into a wide smile, shaking her head.

“No, Harry, it’s fine. Actually, you – “ She stopped herself, pursing her lips while she washed the soap out. “How much have they…told you?”

“Enough,” he said quickly. He didn’t want to talk about the war. Not here, not with these people so clearly effected by it. “I think they wanted to make sure my head was nice and swollen.”

She laughed. “Well, you should be glad they’re keeping it so secret. Do you know the _first_ thing that’ll happen if the press finds out?”

“What’s that?”

“I think about a thousand women would come forward claiming you as the father of their kids. No, really,” she giggled at his face, stopping the sink and squeezing some excess water from the collar. “It happens all the time, as it is.”

“You’re having me on.”

She shook her head. “I’m sure mum has some old _Witch Weekly_ editions when they were convinced you had a fling going with Fleur.”

Harry balked. “She’s married to Ron’s _brother!_ “

“Yes, _I_ know. They had photos of the two of you in Diagon Alley together. I’m sure you just ran into her at Gringotts, but you were _furious._ Wouldn’t look her in the eye for a month.” She glanced up at him, suppressing a grin. “Bill thought it was hilarious, and Phlegm couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t be _flattered_ at the thought.”

“Phlegm?”

Ginny gasped and covered her mouth in faux-shame. “Old nickname. I’m horribly petty, in case you forgot.”

“I won’t say a word,” he promised. She pushed past him and hung the sweater over the banister, tapping her fingers against the wood for a second, thinking.

“Have you been flying yet?”

“Flying? Like on a broom?”

She looked almost as shocked as Ron had, her brown eyes wide and affronted. “Care for a round?”

Without having to think, Harry nodded fervently. They snuck out through a side door – accessible by going up the steps then immediately down a smaller and more crooked flight.

The air was unbelievably fresh, and he realized after a moment that this was his first time outside since waking up. In effect, this was the first time he _ever_ remembered being outside. Odd.

And what an outside it was. Low-slung hills sloped gently past the line of trees surrounding the property. An evening chill settled in as the sun set. His hair waved in the breeze, lungs filled with the scent of flowers and moss and manure.

“Where are we?” He looked into the fenced garden as they passed. Something scurried under a bush. An owl hooted softly.

“Ottery St. Catchpole. Devon.”

He took it all in as they walked toward the trees, fully aware of Ginny watching him thoughtfully.

“How do you feel?”

He frowned, thinking it over. “Anxious, I suppose. Worried I’ll… mess up, somehow.”

“I understand that. But what I’m asking, really, is if there’s anything off.” At his confused look, she continued. “Like, mentally? Or…physically, even. Not something the Healers would have noticed. More like…little flickers.”

“Flickers?”

She made a frustrated sound. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Nothing like that. I _feel_ normal. Normal as I understand it, anyway. Why do you ask?”

The golden light made her skin shine and her hair look like fire. “Things don’t just happen to you, Harry. There’s always something else at play.”

Nothing in that particularly surprised him, but it was ominous. “Do you think Teddy’s safe?”

“Teddy?” She sounded surprised. “Of course. He’s at Hogwarts.”

“Right…but all that bad stuff happened to _us_ at Hogwarts, didn’t it?”

“You’re not wrong. But he’s fine, really. McGonagall wouldn’t let anything happen to him.”

He remembered the name from Teddy’s letter. “You know her?”

“What?” She looked over, then seemed to realize who she was talking to. “Oh. Yes. She was our head of Gryffindor house. Fought in the war, of course. She’s known you since you were a baby. And she’s bloody terrifying, I might add.”

Since he was a baby. He didn’t know how to feel about that. Past the line of trees was an open field, only one small shed taking up space in the shade of an oak. A thin trail of smoke spun from the figure sat against it.

“George?” Ginny asked as they approached. George waved a hand in greeting, a cigarette stuck between his fingers. “Where did you get that?”

“Bought it off some muggles in town,” he said. The embers lit up as he inhaled. Not a cigarette, Harry realized as he smelled the acrid smoke.

“With muggle money?” Ginny asked doubtfully, crossing her arms.

“Maybe I traded for it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Traded what?”

George exhaled. His bloodshot eyes looked exhausted. “You look anxious, Gin. Have a hit?”

She backed away, moving around him in a wide arc to open the shed. “Keep that rubbish away from me. They test us for that sort of thing, and the pre-season’s coming up. Besides, what was the point of the Giggle Gummies if you’re just going to smoke it?”

“It’s been a rough day, alright?” George dropped his head back to the wood, heaving a sigh. “Harry doesn’t remember that I’m his lover.”

Harry felt his mouth drop open in shock.

“He’s kidding, Harry,” Ginny said quickly, bashing George over the head with the end of a broom before tossing it through the air. Harry only just collected himself enough to catch it.

“Don’t look so offended, babe,” George scolded, winking. “May as well keep it in the family, eh?”

“Oh, shut it,” Ginny snapped. She smiled at Harry, gesturing to his broom. “Go on.”

He weighed the broom in his hands, then looked up at the sky. “Fairly good at this, am I? I’m not going to fall?”

Ginny and George shared a wide-eyed look.

“You’re decent,” he said in a strained tone.

Harry raised an eyebrow, but threw a leg over the broom. Ginny did the same, and they kicked off together.

As the ground disappeared from under his feet, so did any and all apprehension. His body seemed very aware of what to do – so much so that his brain only had to focus on the absolute pleasure of being in the air. He shot up, wind blasting his hair back as he let out an exhilarated cry of excitement. This was _fantastic._

When the wind really started buffeting at him, he knew he’d gone as high as this broom would allow. Leaning back into a hovering stop, he looked directly down at the house – a strange beast of a house, it was – and the trees, and even the town a little ways off. George was a pinprick, walking out the center of the field and laying on the grass to watch them.

Ginny had leveled off lower down. Her hair floated around her head as she grinned up at him. Tilting the nose of the broom and shooting to meet her felt as natural as breathing.

“Not bad,” she said, kicking her bare feet in the air. “But _I’m_ the professional, yeah? Think you can beat me?”

He cracked his knuckles, feeling a bit more like himself. Whoever that was. “Something tells me I’ve done it before.”

“ _Ha!”_ She feinted toward him, laughing harder when he moved away. “But you’ve forgotten all my weak points, haven’t you?”

“Big talk for someone without a ball to play with.”

“It’s called a _Q_ _uaffle_ ,” she said with obvious distaste, pulling her wand from under her shirt. “I swear, when I find who did this to you… _accio_ Quaffle!”

After a few moments, a large red ball shot out of the shed and up toward them. She arrested it’s momentum so Harry could catch it under one arm.

“George!” She yelled down, cupping her hands over her mouth. “Come be a Beater!”

George waved his wand about, and a white cloud drifted up to them, taking the form of a small monkey.

“I’ll referee,” it said in George’s voice, climbing up Ginny’s shoulder. “But I _won’t_ be impartial.”

“Whatever that means,” Harry said as it dissipated. Ginny rolled her eyes.

“Fine. Yard rules. See that tree down there? The crooked one?”

He looked down, finding the tree that stood on it’s own.

“That one’s yours. Do whatever you have to do to get the Quaffle past it. This one’s mine, see?”

“…Yeah,” Harry said, finding it. “So we just – ?”

He grunted in surprise as Ginny slammed herself straight into him, gripping his broom as to not topple right off and realizing too late that he’d dropped the Quaffle. She was already racing off with it.

Some intrinsic, unforgettable part of him reared up in a competitive rage, and he followed after as fast as he could. She won that round, and gloated plenty, but the next wasn’t so easy. Or the one after. Any time either of them got a clear breakaway, some sort of benign curse or slowing charm would hit them from the ground, throwing them off just long enough for the other to catch up.

George did seem to be focusing more on Ginny, much to her annoyance.

“OW!” She screamed, clutching her chest and zooming to the ground. “THAT ONE HIT ME IN THE TIT, YOU IDIOT!”

Harry went lower to watch them wrestle violently, laughing until his stomach actually hurt.

“Geroff me, you hag,” George growled, pushing her away and pointing his wand up. “Are you _laughing_?”

“Yes!” Harry called back, unable to believe it. This was the most fun he’d had – well, it was impossible to know, but this might be the most fun he’d had in his _entire_ life.

George lowered his wand, showing white, uneven teeth as he smiled back. He turned, saying something quiet to Ginny as she climbed to her feet. She looked up at Harry and nodded.

“Are you going to whisper about me? Or are you going to come get this Quaffle?”

“Wait up!” Came a faint voice. Ron jogged over from the house and grabbed a broom for himself.

He joined Harry’s team, and it was the most in sync they’d been yet. Ron was always right where Harry needed him to be, ready to catch the Quaffle, or pass it, or to block Ginny so he could make a goal. Even so, Ginny held her own. Things were more evenly matched when Bill joined in.

In full dark, they cast glowing charms on their clothes and on the Quaffle. Light gathered down by the shed, and Harry saw that the rest of the party had migrated out. Someone had levitated a table and chairs so they could all sit and watch the game. Laughter broke out every now and then from the audience as George sent random groups of bright red sparks that they all had to dodge and blink out of their vision.

Harry tapped out so Charlie could have a turn, walking over to the table on wobbly legs. A warming charm washed over him as he drew near and sat on the ground next to Hermione. Fleur had a blanket spread for Victoire to crawl about on.

“You look like you’re having a good time,” Hermione said, like the concept was completely foreign.

“I am. Thanks.” He took a glass of water that she filled with her wand. “I’m having a blast, actually.”

“Good.” Her eyes were wide.

“What? Am I so miserable I don’t even like doing _that?”_

“No. It’s just – you haven’t – “ She frowned, then shook her head. “It’s nothing. I’m glad.”

“Harry,” Percy said, leaning forward from a lawn chair. “How are you finding things?”

The rest of them quieted down, listening. Molly’s gaze burned into the side of his head.

“I like it here.” He plucked some grass up with his fingers. “Do we do this often?”

“Every Sunday,” Arthur said. His husky tone tipped Harry off.

“Do I show up?”

“Oh.” Molly wiped her eyes. “Oh, you’re so busy, being Head Auror. We understand, of course...”

Disappointment crashed over him. These people were lovely. They treated him like a part of the family, and despite the situation, the staring was at a minimum. They were taking it in stride. Making an effort include him like nothing had changed at all.

It wasn’t Sunday, so they must have gathered here just for him. For the first time, he started to hope he wasn’t a lost cause, after all. If the Weasleys liked him, he _must_ be a good person. Right?

“Well, I hope that changes,” he murmured.

They watched sparks shoot through the air, illuminating darting figures. Harry joined in the laughter as Ron and George almost came to blows over a misplaced _D_ _ejectus._

He levitated some of Victoire’s toys. She would laugh and reach up for them, toppling over and rolling around until he or Fleur set her back up.

At some point, he’d had this with Teddy. A chubby, giggling thing that spat up potato and depended on him completely. Now that thing was grown enough to go off to school, and Harry didn’t know anything about him.

Did he quietly obey, or was he loud and cantankerous like Ron’s family? Did he like ice cream? Eat his greens? Was he aware of this darkness that bled into every other aspect of Harry’s life? Harry hoped not. He hoped he’d kept it hidden away.

Eventually, the broomsticks returned to the shed. Ron took a chair near Hermione, and Bill sat on the blanket, drawing the baby into his lap. The conversation turned reminiscing, for Harry’s benefit but not obviously so. They talked about the past ten years, about weddings and small fights and Teddy breaking an heirloom clock trying to climb the picture-wall.

Harry took in as much as he could, noticing the names Neville and Luna coming up quite often. Every now and then, though, he would catch George frowning at him. Not glaring, or gazing sadly, like Molly. Just frowning. The rest of the time he just looked at the grass, rarely joining in on a story.

Harry didn’t pay it too much mind. If he and George had some kind of problem, he would just have to bring it up himself. Harry certainly wasn’t going to.

They didn’t leave until late. He was thoroughly hugged or had his hand shaken by everyone, and found he was very sorry to go.

______________________

He woke up the next morning to an irregular, insistent tapping. It took a minute to orient himself. Not just spatially, either – he had to recollect a rather scattered sense of self, first. Right. Harry Potter. And he was in Harry Potter’s house.

Groggily, he found his glasses and went to the window, looking blearily out at late morning spreading without haste through the neighborhood. A small brown owl looked back, pecking pointedly on the glass.

Harry pushed the window up. “Hello.”

It hopped a few steps inside, holding out its leg imperiously. Harry gently unwound the string attached to the note, flinching out of the way as the owl took rightly off, flying straight through his open bedroom door and further into the house.

He left the window open, walking shirtless down the stairs and into the kitchen. Hermione seemed worried about him staying on his own, but she hadn’t argued. He was up into the wee hours cleaning the kitchen and tidying his room. Every trace of alcohol had been Vanished. That done, he could relax enough to fall asleep.

He stopped short, catching sight of an intruder in his sitting room. A silvery Patronus beaver paced on the old rug. It sat up when he approached it, speaking with Hermione’s voice.

“Hey, Harry. I thought you deserved a bit of a lie-in this morning. Since you can’t produce a Patronus; I’m speed dial two on your cell phone – I’ve no idea where you put it, but it should be in your house somewhere. Call me if you need anything.”

Still listening, Harry walked to the kitchen. The beaver scurried after him, earning distrustful looks from the owl perched on the back of a chair.

“I’d like to see you again in the Department of Mysteries, if that’s all right. If you aren’t in by one, I’ll come looking for you. Did that sound like a threat? Oh, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be seeing you.”

The beaver vanished as Harry was starting a kettle. His tea was all loose-leaf, for some reason. He didn’t like loose-leaf. He didn’t know _how_ he knew that, he just did. The fridge was nearly empty. Some leftover Italian sat in a Tupperware, and lettuce browned in the crisper. He took an apple and, glancing at the owl, grabbed a knife to cut it up.

“Are you my owl?” Harry cut a cube of apple and set it on the other side of the table. The owl hopped down and snapped it up. “What’s your name, hm? You look like a…like a Todd.”

The owl just clicked its beak impatiently. Harry sighed, giving him a few more cubes. He had a feeling who this letter was from, and he was both extremely eager and dreading to read it. He would have to reply, and then the jig was up, wasn’t it?

The penmanship was as clumsy as the other one, with a suspicious brown stain across the lower half. Harry was already smiling as he read.

_Sorry it’s taken me so long to reply. I’ve been busier than you could believe – Professor Marcus assigned fourteen inches for a paper about transfiguring water into steam. I don’t understand it one bit. Why wouldn’t you just use a heating spell?_

_Reena and I went to see Hagrid again. She was a little scared to go alone, but I told her he’s all right. We had tea and he let us pet his crup, Butcher. He talked about you and Uncle Ron – of course – but Reena had never heard some of those stories, so I guess it’s fine. I made sure to tell the other Hufflepuffs how nice he is, so they would stop acting so frightened. Someone was spreading a rumor that he _eats _children and I got so mad I did some accidental magic. Jaqueline will be okay, though. Madame Pomfrey managed to make her tongue stop swelling._

 _You asked me if I was having any trouble, and I have to be honest and say I am total shite at Potions. I know you told me not to swear, but Headmistress McGonagall heard me saying it in the hall. This time, I was sure she’d give me a detention, but she didn’t!_ _She just pulled me aside and said real quiet that YOU used to be absolute shite at it, too! I think I like her a lot, Harry. Maybe she’ll tell Professor Zabini to stop embarrassing me in front of class. I don’t even want to write it here, it’s so awful._

_Anyway, Réne just spilled his pudding all over my parchment, and I don’t have time to write another letter before class so I’m sorry about the stain. Réne is my other friend. I don’t know if I mentioned that. He’s a Ravenclaw, but he’s all right. I’ll tell you more about him next time._

Then, very small in the corner, like he’d scribbled it so no one else could see: _I love you, and I miss you. Please send some sickles so I can bribe a third-year to go to Honeydukes for me._

_Ted._

Harry sat back, his chest tight. Every scribbled out mistake – every violently underlined word. The small, bashful _I love you._ It broke him down in the best way. He was a good parent. He _had_ to be, for Teddy to write a letter so wonderfully… _wonderful_.

He itched to write a response, but what the hell could he say? _Thanks for the letter. You seem like a good kid._ Bloody hell, this was a nightmare. He could just send some sickles along…but did he even have any laying around? And Teddy might be hurt if there wasn’t a response…

He’d get Ron or Hermione to help, he decided. Hopefully get a response in before…whatever time they had dinner at Hogwarts.

“What do I do with you?” He asked the owl. It didn’t look up, head stuck under its wing, preening. He cut up some more apple and left it there, dressing quickly in his room. He rifled through all the robes, but didn’t find any with red stripes. One set did have a pocketful of galleons and sickles, though, so he wore those.

Floo seemed the only option, as he didn’t know how to actually _get_ to the Ministry any other way. The staring still happened as he stepped into the atrium, but he felt a bit more sure of himself today. He kept his back straight as he strode across the atrium floor, glancing at the fountain. The golden blob was an owl, today, wings spread in flight. It wasn’t visibly attached to the floor, but water trickled from its gilded feathers in a steady, clear stream.

After a moment of hesitation in the empty lift, he decided on going to Hermione first. Get this part over with. The black hallway was even creepier when he was alone; his relative confidence wavered as he approached the handle-less door.

 _Trespassers will be lost to the void of time and irritated Unspeakables,_ it read. He looked around, hoping to see some sort of…doorbell. Or something. His knock echoed ominously along the walls.

A new line of words appeared, written by an invisible hand. _Go away._

“Erm, Harry Potter to see Herm…Unspeakable Granger,” he said. Nothing happened. He jumped as something prodded his arm.

The quill hung in the air, waiting for him to take it and sign the same parchment from the day before, which had also just appeared.

When he signed it, the door swung open…

…And then it was shut. Hermione lowered her wand, looking troubled.

“Well, good morning,” he stuttered, hating this feeling. “How long was that?”

“J-Just an hour.” She pushed her hair from her face, breathing hard.

“What’s the matter?”

Her hair was down today, tight curls bouncing as she shook her head. “We recovered a…memory.”

“Really? Which one?” He wracked his mind, like the new addition would suddenly present itself. “Was it about Teddy?”

“No.” Her eyes darted back to the door. “I don’t think it belonged to you.”

“What…what does that even mean?”

“I’ll give you an answer to that when I’ve got one.” She leaned up on her toes to peck him on the cheek. “Don’t worry about it, okay?”

Without another word, she walked through the door. It didn’t open for her, or anything. Just…let her through. Curious, Harry stepped forward to try the same, but some quickly written words stopped him.

_Don’t even think about it._

He didn’t know if they’d talked about the letter. The one from Teddy was still in his pocket, but nothing else. Fine.

“Unspeakable, indeed,” he muttered darkly at the door, rubbing his cheek.

The work day was in full swing as he walked out on level two, everyone in their offices where they couldn’t stare. Only Madame Rashida looked at him suspiciously over her glasses.

“Hello,” he said. She harrumphed and turned back to the paper. Probably still cross from the Howler situation.

The Auror team quickly covered up raucous laughter as he walked into the office. Ron was the only one who didn’t wipe the smile from his face.

“Didn’t believe us, did you?”

“What…?” Harry looked down at the newspaper slid in his direction. On the front page was a photo of him. A photo of him – not _two hours ago_ – walking from the fireplaces in the atrium. It had been taken from the side at a surreptitious angle. His undone robes billowed open, showing his collared shirt and trousers.

 _Dressed to Impress?_ _Pompous Potter flashes Paisley Panache at the Ministry._

“What the…” he only glanced over the article. They were speculating on a secret office romance for whom he was… _peacocking?_ He looked down at his shirt, one he’d fished out of the very back of his closet. “Is _this_ why almost everything in my closet is black?”

Seamus broke into laughter, leaning into Dean’s side. “I haven’t seen that face in so long!”

“I think you look nice,” Élise said, hand pressed to her mouth. “Don’t let this ruin it!”

Harry held up the picture. “I’m just _walking_. How the fuck is this _newsworthy?”_

“Some of the blokes in Transportation thought it might be Madame Rashida,” Debra said, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Any comment?”

Harry dropped the paper to the table, disgusted. A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he examined the large whiteboard on the wall. Various images were stuck to the surface, drawn on, moving lines of marker squiggling between them.

“What’s this?” He stepped forward, looking at the blurry, unmoving photograph of a bald man. Underneath it was a series of papers, some typed out and some handwritten.

“Just mapping out Dolohov’s last known locations.”

“Oh.” Harry looked at the other picture. It was a tall, austere blonde man. Draco, Harry guessed. His memory of that face was vague at best, but something in the set of the mouth was familiar enough. “And Draco’s.”

“Yeah.” Ron cleared his throat. “I asked him to come in today.”

“You did?” Harry turned. “Why?”

Ron gave him an incredulous look. “This was _your_ idea. We’re going to ask him to… _work_ with us.”

Again, he said it like the idea was absolutely ludicrous. Everyone else made brave attempts at poker faces.

“What do you all think?” He asked. They exchanged glances. Dean crossed his arms, glancing between Harry and Ron.

“Which one of you is in charge again?”

“Come off it.” Ron rolled his eyes. “They think it’s a good idea, Harry.”

Harry nodded, relieved he wasn’t completely off-base. “When is he coming in?”

Ron glanced at the permanent Tempus hovering over the door. “Few hours.”

Well, that was quite soon. “Can I speak with you? In…my office?”

Ron raised his eyebrows. “Yeah.”

Harry made sure to toss the _Prophet_ into the bin as they went. Seamus snickered.

“What’s up?” Ron asked, taking what was obviously his usual spot on the desk. Harry sat in the chair, pulling Teddy’s note from his robes.

“I need to answer this. If you’re busy preparing for Malfoy – “

“Don’t be daft.” Ron snatched the letter away, unfolding it. “I’ve got time.”

He read over it quickly, huffing through his nose and grinning widely. “Man, I miss it sometimes.”

“What should I write?” Harry asked anxiously, Summoning a roll of parchment and picking up a quill. Ron folded Teddy’s letter and set it down.

“Tell him…tell him that Transfiguration is bonkers on purpose, and he’ll look smart if he never questions it. As for Hagrid, I think he likes it when the little ones are scared - he’ll never admit it, though. You’ll be of no use to him with potions, and Zabini probably does have it out for him…tell Ted to bring up our sixth year Quidditch match where he tried a Wronskey and ended up taking out an entire stand. “

Harry’s quill scratched as he re-wrote Ron’s words into his own.

“You know…” Ron said slowly. “If we went for a visit, we could take him to Hogsmeade ourselves.”

“A visit?” Harry felt a spark of excitement, and then apprehension. “Really?”

“Yeah!” Ron was starting to sound excited, too. “Yeah, I mean – Maybe McGonagall ought to know you’ve forgot everything. And we can see Neville!”

“I thought…but Hermione was right. I can’t do this to him.” Harry scrubbed at his face. “I don’t want to.”

Ron was quiet for a minute. “You _do_ want to meet him, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Harry said quickly.

“Well…” Ron scrunched his face up. “Don’t tell ‘Mione I said this, but I think she’s convinced she’ll fix you. And I don’t doubt she will, but it might take a while. If you don’t have your memories by the weekend…”

“Alright,” Harry chewed the end of the sugar quill. “We’ll go this weekend. One way or another.”

He prepared himself for the possibility. Wouldn’t it be better to tell Teddy than to lie about it? Which would he prefer, if he was a child?

“If you don’t…erm, you know, then you’ll get to see Hogwarts for the first time, yeah? It’ll be great.”

It did sound great, Harry thought as he wrote to tell Teddy. Great and terrible all at once.

“Should I send him something? Besides just money?” He looked up, frowning. “ _Should_ I send him money? What’s my situation, exactly?”

Ron looked like he might laugh. “You’re all set, trust me. I think he’d like something from George’s shop, though.”

“George has a shop?” He’d heard it mentioned, the night before, but no one had said precisely what it was.

“Yes!” Ron said, perking back up. “You haven’t been to Diagon Alley yet, either! I’ll take you!”

That had been mentioned quite often, as well. “That’s fine, Ron, but…am I allowed to go _anywhere_ on my own?”

Ron’s face fell slightly. “Oh. Well, I’d rather you…” he stood up, pacing in what small space allowed it. “There are Death Eaters after us. You, specifically. What if you can’t defend yourself? What if you forget to be on your guard, just for a second?”

“You think I’ll be attacked in the street?!”

“Erm, I’d say it’s a _possibility_ ,” Ron said, heavily sarcastic. Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Let’s duel, then.”

Ron’s mouth quirked. “What?”

Harry couldn’t explain it. Confidence, that’s what it was. He was confident – bone-deep – that he could defend himself just fine. “I bet I’ll win.”

“You couldn’t even remember _Expelliarmus._ ”

“Well, now I do. What do you say?”

Ron kept up a dubious frown, but Harry knew he was for it.

“I think we’ve got time.”

“Great.” Harry stood. “In here?”

“No,” Ron snorted. “C’mon. We’ll be back,” he said to the team, and Harry turned away from their curious glances to follow Ron toward the lifts. They stepped inside, and Ron prodded Two. The level they were already on.

Only instead of Two, when he pulled his wand away it read 2 ½ . The doors slid back open, and the reception area was gone. In its place was a big, empty space. The floor was a dark wood, the walls bronze and shining. Some charmed windows spilled sunlight inside, making everything glow.

“One of our training rooms,” Ron said, striding out to the center. Harry, acquainting himself, almost didn’t react to a wordless leg locker curse. His shield caught it at the last possible second.

“Wouldn’t’ve put you for a cheater,” Harry sniped, they fell into an almost familiar step, circling each other. Harry’s feet moved on their own.

Ron smirked and threw a volley of curses. Harry blocked them, knocked back a step at the force of a _Conjunctivitus_.

“You think a Death Eater’ll formally ask you to duel?” Ron cast another curse. Harry blocked it, managing to get in a Sponge-Knee curse. Ron blocked that as well, but he too was knocked back a step. “No. They’ll do whatever it takes to kill you.”

“ _Flipendo!”_

Ron stumbled, his shield catching the worst of it. “ _Langlock,_ ” he said, jabbing his wand. Harry didn’t get his own wand raised in time, and his tongue sealed itself to the top of his mouth. He very nearly panicked, then remembered that he could do wordless magic just fine.

Ron’s eyes widened when his next _Flipendo_ was just as strong as the first. Harry’s _Expelliarmus_ was stronger than either of them anticipated. It blew right through Ron’s shield, sending his wand across the room.

An _Incarcerous Minorus_ tied his hands without knocking him over. Harry used the silence to undo the tongue-locking curse on himself.

“Not bad,” Ron said, breathing hard. Harry released him so he could Summon back his wand, shaking out his arm. “Your disarm is as strong as ever.”

“Again?” Harry asked, his limbs tingling with victory. Ron nodded eagerly, setting his stance.

He got the jump a few times, but Harry never lost a match. It was rather fun. Exhilarating and challenging. Before they knew it, nearly two hours had passed. He was shaking off the effects of a Babbling Curse when Ron said they should be getting back.

“That was fun. I mean, not as fun as Quidditch, but I get the sense I’m good at it, y’know? I’m relieved to actually be good at _something_ , because, y’know, I just figured I’m a depressed drunk. Y’know?”

Ron gave him a wide-eyed glance as he pressed the lift button.

“It’s odd, you know, to be me. Or not-me, I suppose. You and Hermione seem nice, and your family was great, but what about the other people in my life? I never date, I don’t even own the right robes for work – “

“ _Silencio_ ,” Ron sighed. Harry shut up gratefully. “You never wear Auror robes.”

Harry raised a questioning eyebrow. Madame Rashida gave disapproving looks to their disheveled, slightly sweaty appearances.

“Did you go for a run?” Élise asked incredulously, poking her head around her cubicle.

Harry could only shake his head.

“No. We dueled. He’s still Babbling,” Ron explained, squeezing his arm. Harry felt the _Silencio_ lift, but kept quiet. He knew if he started talking again he wouldn’t be able to stop. “Why don’t you go talk yourself out of it?”

Harry went to his office and shut the door, rubbing his arm and reciting the seven uses for unicorn hair under his breath. Then he started on the thirty five variations of holly, looking through the stacks of paper for anything interesting. Departmental reports, mission debriefings…it looked like they’d busted a major illicit potion ring just a few months earlier. That sounded exciting.

He picked up a memo and read it aloud, trying to rid himself of the compulsion to speak.

“The _Daily Prophet_ requests compensation from one Harry Potter to the order of fifteen galleons, regarding the destruction of a magical press camera on the first of September, year two-thousand-and-nine. Signed Wermley Wilson... Huh.”

He went to the main room, where the others seemed to be preparing. The whiteboard had been wiped clean, or Concealed. Scattered documents and binders that had made up the centerpiece of the table were gone. Debra stood in front of the front door, waving her wand and muttering. They must have Security Wards set up that disallowed random visitors.

“Should I be worried about this?” Harry asked, leaning into Ron’s cubicle. “I broke a camera?”

Ron’s quill came to a stop as he read the memo. He snorted. “Some moron tried to get a photo of you and Ted on King’s Cross – that’s, erm, where kids get on the train to Hogwarts.”

“So I _attacked_ him?”

Ron shrugged, handing the memo back over. “He got off easy if you ask me. You could’ve done a lot worse.”

“I believe you,” Harry muttered. Apparently he was quite the public menace. “Should I pay it back?”

Ron swiveled to face him. His cubicle was filled with trinkets, and smiling photographs. There was a smaller version of the poster from Teddy’s room. Ginny yawned, gesturing vaguely to Ron in a _what can you do?_ sort of way. Harry smiled at her.

“It’s up to you, innit?”

Harry felt in his pockets. “I think I need to get some money out. Where exactly is Diagon Alley?”

“It’s – “

There was a knock on the main door. Everyone froze for a second. Ron shot up and moved past Harry with a hand on his back, pushing him gently toward the head of the table.

“Everyone, _try_ and look professional.” His voice was so easily authoritative Harry wondered how he hadn’t been Head Auror all along.

Seamus took a sugar quill from his mouth, Vanishing it and giving Harry a reassuring smile. Everyone filed into a seat, leaving the end empty.

“ _Aberto_ ,” Ron said, sitting next to Harry. The door opened, and Draco Malfoy walked in.

Not _walked_ , actually. It was somewhere between a glide and a strut. Deep emerald robes started at his neck and swayed to the floor, making his skin seem all the more startlingly pale. White-blond hair was slicked back elegantly from his face, strong jaw and pale eyes on full display. Harry thought he remembered stubble, from that night, and a certain disarray to his hair. Those were both gone.

It wasn’t nearly as strong – and Harry wasn’t entirely sure of it – but his whole presentation reminded him of Fleur, a bit. If she was the most striking woman he’d ever seen, Draco was definitely the most striking man. The picture didn’t do any of it justice.

“Malfoy,” Ron said shortly. “Glad you could make it.” His voice indicated every opposite.

Draco looked around, face blank. His eyes seemed to halt on Harry for a second longer than anyone else. He looked in the region of Harry’s tie, and Harry hoped – irrationally – that Draco hadn’t seen the paper that morning. He also wished he’d taken some tidying charms to himself after the dueling.

He set a hand on the back of the empty chair. “More questioning? Haven’t you heard enough?”

His accent was posh, aloof. Everyone sat up a little straighter at that, their faces just as blank. Except Ron, who looked distinctly miffed.

“Sit,” he growled. Draco looked at Harry before he did, his shoulders going impossibly tense as he sank gracefully into the chair. “Harry corroborated your story. No point in questioning you.”

“Yet,” Debra added flatly. Draco only glanced at her, his eyes sweeping back to Ron as he spoke.

“We called you here today because… Because you might be able to help.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You never wanted my help before.”

“And I don’t _want_ it now,” Ron snapped. “Harry does.”

Under Draco’s pale stare, Harry felt more than a little unbalanced. He gave Ron a look for throwing him under the bus.

“I just thought, being a former Death Eater,” he stumbled over the phrase _Death Eater_ , still finding a bit of silliness to it that no one else seemed to. “You might have some insight as to what happened to me.”

Nothing on Draco’s face moved, save for his eyes. They widened the slightest amount as he looked to Ron. “He doesn’t remember.”

Ron made no attempt to cover his disdain. “We’re working on it. That’s why you’re here.”

Draco’s mouth tightened. “What can I do?”

It was hard to look away from him, but Harry managed. The rest of the team exchanged looks he couldn’t interpret.

“Before,” Debra folded her hands on the table. “You said you had no knowledge of what could have been done to erase all of Harry’s memories.”

Draco’s eyes blinked rapidly, a strange, fluttering motion. Debra frowned like she noticed, too. “That was true. I have no knowledge.”

“Do you think it’s possible Dolohov did this on accident?”

“Yes.”

Debra waited, but there was no elaboration. “Do you think he was trying to kill him?”

“You already asked me – “ His eyes did the fluttering thing again. “No. If he was, Potter would be dead. I probably would, too.”

“Explain,” Ron demanded.

“I was alone – I had been alone there for weeks. The only person who could have entered the premises was someone else with a Dark Mark. Dolohov must have been trying to get to that safehouse, but for some reason he left Potter there instead.” His eyes flashed to Harry’s face for the briefest of moments. ”I don’t care how injured he was – if he had the wherewithal to Apparate the two of them splinchlessly, then he should have killed him.”

The words were mechanical, emotionless. When he was done, Draco blinked like he was coming back to himself, and cleared his throat almost nervously. Dean frowned.

“You said all that before.”

“Yes,” Draco snapped irritably. “You _asked_ me all that before.”

“What do _you_ think his goal was, then?” Seamus asked, in the gentlest tone yet. Draco’s nostrils flared, but he answered without hesitation.

“To test me.”

“ _Test_ you?” Ron hissed. “What the fuck does that mean? You said you weren’t involved!”

“It _means,_ Weasley, that there are still at least fifteen safehouses scattered across Europe. Dolohov knew I was there, and he left Potter behind to see if I’d _really_ do the right thing.”

Harry frowned, remembering the panicked way Draco had looked around. Suspicious. On his guard. Only Harry’s injury had distracted him from it.

Ron smacked the tabletop with a loud _bang_. “What are you playing at, Malfoy?! Thought you’d cook up some new bullshit theory to mess with us?”

“I’m telling the truth!” Draco yelled back. “I didn’t want to believe it, before, but that’s the _only_ theory that explains all of this!”

“Fuck off,” Ron threw back. Harry prepared himself to intervene. “You’ve never told the truth a day in your life – “

Draco’s eyes lit up with anger. “What would it take? For you to believe me? Veritaserum?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. But we don’t have – “

“Excellent!” Draco stood, putting one hand into his robes. Everyone tensed. Only Ron drew his wand. But Draco wasn’t going for an attack. Instead, he rolled a small, empty vial across the table. It clinked to a gentle stop in front of Dean, who leaned back warily.

“Veritaserum.” Draco said, breathing hard. “Took it just before I walked in.”

Seamus and Élise looked like they’d been Stunned. Ron’s face turned a bright red. He and Dean looked at the vial mistrustfully. Debra looked like she might smile.

“Test the residue if you don’t believe me.” Draco sat. “Now, if you’re not as stupid as I think you are, you’ll ask me what you _really_ want to know.”

Harry stared at him, a bit impressed. Veritaserum was supposed to be really uncomfortable. He spoke without thinking. “Did you have _anything_ to do with what happened to me?”

“Yes,” Draco said automatically. Ron made an angry sound, and he held up a hand. “Wait – it’s the potion – I didn’t _plan_ what happened. I believe Dolohov was trying to get at me, so in that way, _yes_ , I supposed I am involved.”

“Are you capable of helping with this investigation?” Dean asked.

A short pause. “Yes.”

“Gallahey,” Ron said, looking at the vial. Debra nodded and took it, exiting the room. He looked at Draco, considering. “Do you know where Dolohov is?”

“No.”

“Macnair?”

“No.”

“So _how_ do you plan to be of any use to us?”

Draco leaned forward, eyes wide. “Need I remind you that _you_ asked me here – _ah,”_ he sat back, touching his temple in pain. His next words sounded forced. “ _I know how to find him_.”

Harry looked around, dumbstruck. They’d never bothered to ask Draco to help, instead searching out Death Eaters on their own for _ten years_ – when he was capable of finding them all along?

But Ron looked just as shocked. “What?” He asked quietly, almost _dangerously_. He hadn’t lowered his wand. “Are you serious?”

“Painfully,” Draco muttered, rubbing his temple gingerly.

“When you were on trial, you said – “

“I _know_ what I said. Things have changed.”

He stopped talking, but Harry was catching on to how the potion worked. “Like what?”

Draco visibly fought the impulse for a few seconds – probably trying to work out a way to say the inevitable. “I’ve done research. Into Dark Magic.”

Ron snorted. “Of course you have.”

“Why?” Harry asked patiently. Draco swallowed, the tendons in his neck standing out with effort.

“I’m trying to find a way to get rid of it without resorting to amputation.” He shut his eyes as he said it, his eyebrows drawing together sharply.

Élise made a startled sound, and Seamus went green. Harry was missing something. “Rid of it?”

“He means the Dark Mark,” Ron said in an undertone. Harry looked him over for any such thing, but the robes did a good job of covering his skin.

“It’s very old stuff,” Draco said, staring down at the table. “High Magic. Arthurian.”

“Spit it out.”

“I don’t – It’s difficult to explain.”

Ron finally lowered his wand. “This research. You’ll give it to us?”

“Yes.” Draco looked up, his face hard. “I’ll share it.”

“Share?” Ron shook his head, laughing sourly. “I don’t – “

“I’m the only one who can…perform it. The ritual.”

Fluttering paper broke the tension as a memo shoved itself through the transom. Ron caught it out of the air, grimacing at whatever it said. “Residue’s legitimate.”

He Vanished the memo and looked at Harry for a long moment before turning to Draco with cold eyes. “Do you regret it?”

Dean sighed. “Ron – “

“Yes,” Draco said, leaning forward with one fist on the table. “I regret it.”

Hostile, confrontational, and brazen. But true. Harry thought they could all see that. He chanced a look at Ron, trying to decipher _that_ expression. Like he’d desperately love to throw a punch.

“Would you kill Dolohov or Macnair if it came down to it?”

Draco went, if possible, even more pale. “Yes. I would.”

After several tense seconds, Ron nodded. “When can you start?”

“Now.” Draco blinked and sighed irritably. “I _mean_ , I’ll need to find somewhere to live. More permanently.”

“How long will that take?”

“Finding an apartment in London?” He rolled his eyes. “No idea.”

“And you’re still staying with Parkinson?” Seamus asked. Draco looked irritated at that.

“Yes. The sort of privacy I’ll need for this will be more than an inconvenience.”

“Fine,” Ron said tersely. “We’ll expect you back here on Monday, flat or no. Prepare your… _research_ and be prepared to brief us. Got it?”

“Yes. But I don’t work for you.” Draco stood, his chair screeching back a bit. “I’m _choosing_ to work _with_ you. Have you got _that?”_

He didn’t wait for anyone to answer, and the silence as he swept from the room was thick and palpable. Harry found he had the urge to follow, but a move like that might make the vein in Ron’s forehead finally pop. Hermione would be cross.

“Well.” Dean rolled his shoulders. “That was…something.”

“Arthurian magic,” Seamus said doubtfully. He looked to Élise. “Don’t they teach that rubbish at Beauxbatons?”

“They don’t teach it anywhere.” She sounded affronted. “Because it’s not _rubbish._ It’s…arcane. The Darkest thing about Beauxbatons was cotillion.”

“Restricted Section at Hogwarts is fairly ancient,” Seamus mentioned. Ron nodded his agreement, some of his anger falling away.

“Yeah. Yeah, if we go there this weekend we could look around. For now, we can start researching in the Ministry Archives.”

Everyone but Harry groaned. “Where are those?” He asked curiously.

“Camden Catacombs.” Seamus shuddered. “And it’s _creepy_.”

“Do I…” _have to go?_ Harry almost asked. But that was ridiculous. He wasn’t asking permission. He was a grown man, and he didn’t know a thing about Dark magic. “I’m going to Diagon Alley. Erm…do you need anything from me?”

Dean started resetting the wards, muttering to Seamus about caverns and Warming Charm dead-zones. Ron hurriedly wrote down some directions.

“So you’ll just Floo to the Leaky,” he told Harry anyway, walking him down to the fireplaces. “Walk left to the alley, and tap your wand to the brick. You do remember your address? So you can get home?”

“Yes.”

“Well, just in case, you can find George and ask. Right?”

“Right.” Harry snatched the note of directions away. He wasn’t sure where his eagerness to get away was coming from. Or his particular curiosity about going out in public…but surely they couldn’t run _two_ features on his fucking tie in one day? “See you later?”

“Sure. Maybe I’ll bring you dinner tonight?” Ron glanced over at the fountain and chuckled. “Looks like fish and chips.”

Harry followed his gaze, frowning at the golden owl. “…Sounds good.”

“’Ta. Good, erm, luck.” He clapped Harry on the shoulder and strode off. Avoiding the stares of passerby, Harry pinched some Floo into the fire and stepped inside, glancing quickly down at the first line of directions.

“The Leaky Cauldron.”

_________________________

_Tap it against the brick_. Well, that was bloody vague. Harry glanced over his shoulder in the alley, praying that one of the many patrons inside the bar wouldn’t walk out here and see him. Fuck.

“ _Aberto_ ,” he muttered. Nothing. Forcing a deep breath, he stepped back, looking at the series of bricks with discoloring that indicated they’d been tapped by many wands. Maybe he had to try _all_ of them?

Yes. Right. Feeling a bit stupid, he stepped back again as the bricks rolled open like a great set of drapes, making certain his robes were fastened. He pulled his hood up for good measure as he saw just how many people were milling around. Maybe he could wear a headband, but his _eyes_ still stood out – did he have to be so weird-looking?

Aside from the stares, the alley was enchanting. A narrow cobblestone path was crowded on either side by closely packed storefronts behind medieval timber-frame jettisons. Some were newly painted, or clearly in a state of repair.

Gringotts sat at the very end, towering over the rest. He made for that first, eyes wondering. There was a shop for robes, one for telescopes and strange silver instruments. A window was stacked with barrels of bat spleens and kelpie eyes; another showed wobbling piles of spell books. Potions, wands, parchment and quills. At least two broom shops.

The farther he walked, the less he felt stares directed at him. It wasn’t all that crowded just after lunchtime. The white marble steps to Gringotts sounded hollow against his feet. Or maybe that was just the way the marble echoed. Burnished bronze doors awaited him, flanked by two security wizards. They both tipped their hats to him.

“Mr. Potter.”

Biting back the urge to return pleasantries, Harry just nodded and pushed inside, striding through an entrance chamber and through a second set of doors. Past that, he had to stop and look, re-orienting himself in time and space.

The inner chamber was massive. Two glowing chandeliers, inset with thousands of individual flames, hung heavily from a ceiling so high it was hidden in shadow. Golden, staring engravings of goblin faces hung from the buttresses, lit in stark relief near high oval windows.

Several teller desks lined the long room, goblins and humans sitting behind them shuffling through papers or counting coins. Harry glanced down at the paper, walking straight past them toward the smaller hall at the end. He pushed his hood off as he went, spurred on by the lack of patrons currently inside. The humans that glanced up smiled, but the goblins scowled. He walked faster, following Ron’s instructions.

Office number 105 had a little nameplate on the door. Harry knocked.

“Enter.”

He opened it and peeked his head inside. “I’m not bothering you, am I?”

“’arry,” Fleur said, sounding surprised and pleased. “Not at all. Please.”

She gestured to the chair in front of her desk; an ancient, spindly thing that matched the rest of the set. A large painting behind her depicted Gringotts from street level, a night sky above complete with shooting stars at repetitive intervals. It was much nicer than the unicorn.

“Ron told me to find you, since I don’t know anything about how to get money.”

Her hair was braided into a shining plait over one shoulder. Looking at her for too long was difficult, but he saw her smile as he focused on a photo of Victoire.

“Yes, yes, he did mention this to me.” She waved her wand, saying something in smooth French that had a file detaching itself from a cabinet and floating into Harry’s hands. “Zis is your information.”

Ron had already owled about him? He looked away from her suspiciously eager eyes, opening the folder and reading. The balance was on the first line.

“There’s been a mistake,” he said automatically, even though it clearly had his name on it.

“No,” Fleur giggled. “It iz yours. ‘Ow much do you want to withdraw?”

He blinked at the numbers, waiting for his eyes to focus on a much smaller sum. No, it was the same. “I have no idea. How much do you think I’ll need for…I dunno, a few things for Teddy?”

“What are you getting for ‘im?”

He shrugged, running a hand over his chin. “I think he wanted some sweets.”

“Ah. The Weezly shop, then.” She stood and conjured a steaming cup of tea. “I will have Rocklor fetch it from your vault.”

“Thanks,” he said, settling back as she left. Piano played softly from a record player in the corner. The air smelled like bergamot and lavender. Or maybe that was the tea. He blew before sipping it, flipping through the past transactions listed on parchment. There was a pattern – a small amount was put in every two months. Auror salary, he supposed. Every two weeks, an equally small sum was withdrawn. There were some outliers, though. A year ago he’d taken out four _hundred_ galleons. Three weeks previous he’d also taken out a larger than usual, but still relatively small, amount.

None of it explained how he could have so much money. He asked Fleur about it when she returned, bringing more of the lavender scent with her. She conjured her own tea pensively, switching the needle over to a livelier track. Her robes were white and seemingly imbued with a glowing charm, but maybe just had that effect on things. Even her mug seemed whiter than it should be.

“We ‘ave never talked about zis. From Bill, I understand your parents were quite rich. Your godfather also left you hiz vault – the Black family fortune.”

“And these…massive withdrawals?”

Her pink lips tilted up. He thought he might be sweating. “You like to invest in new companies. Donations, really. Diagon Alley would not have rebuilt so quickly after ze war without your help.” She leaned forward at where he was looking. “Ah. Last year…I believe it was to George…’e was fined by ze Ministry for hiring a test group without ze proper permits.”

“How generous of me,” he said drily. She laughed, a tinkling bell sound. But, really, he sounded like quite a decent sort, at least with his money. “Bill works here as well, doesn’t he? Is he around?”

“Now, ‘e is at home with ze baby.” She nudged the baby picture toward herself, sighing wistfully. “Ze cursebreaking takes him away for two months, then he is back for two months. He leaves again at ze end of ze week.”

“Well, if you need someone to watch Victoire…” he hesitated, unsure why he was offering. “I mean, I suppose my schedule is quite empty until my memories are back.”

Her wide eyes blinked once. “You are not working?”

“I’ve been hanging around the Auror office, but…It feels like I’m just dead weight, at the moment.”

“Well…” Fleur nodded her understanding. “Perhaps Molly would like a day off next week. It would be good for Victoire to see her only _oncle_ with manners, no?”

Harry realized, as warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the tea, that he’d like that very much. “I – sure.”

“Withdrawal for Mr. Potter,” a voice said sourly. A well-dressed goblin pushed into the room, a heavy bag in his hand. It clanked as he set it down in Harry’s lap.

“Thank you,” he said. The goblin – Rocknor, was it? – sniffed through a small, flat nose and turned on his heel. Fleur rolled her eyes behind his back.

“I know – ze customer service needs much work.”

“It – it’s quite all right.” Harry peered into the bag, eyes wide. Galleons. _So_ many galleons. “You think I’ll need all this?”

“I added your usual withdrawal amount.” She gestured to the file, where a new entry had already appeared. “A week early, but I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He returned her smile, casting a Lightening Charm on the bag and shoving it into an inner pocket. “I’ll just be going, then. Thanks for the tea.”

“Of course,” she moved to stand. “I will walk you out – “

“No!” He said, too loudly. She paused, raising her eyebrows. “I don’t need anyone else taking pictures of me, today. And I don’t want to drag you into it.”

She giggled. “Yes. Goodbye, ‘arry.”

He kept his eyes down as he exited the bank, blinking in the sun off the white marble. After the twilight-esque darkness inside (and the _Fleur)_ , it was jarring. The alleys grew even quieter as afternoon set in. It was nearly like having the place to himself.

Where to go…? He had money. A lot of money. The bookshops looked inviting, but there were so many at his flat he was no longer acquainted with…He didn’t need a broom. There was one at his house, leant against the wall near the sofa gathering dust. He’d take it to the Weasley’s on Sunday.

The menagerie looked interesting. He’d be sending Todd the Owl back to Hogwarts that night, but even then he probably didn’t have a pet for good reason. An allergy or something he didn’t know about.

All that was just the way he’d come; there were two more directions to explore. One was dark and hidden under overhangs – there were no people down that way. The other was nicer, and most importantly he could just see one extremely colorful roof above the rest. That’s where he was headed.

He glanced through every shop window on his way. Another menagerie that just sold owls, a boutique, a tailor. A store that sold muggle clothes, its sign depicting a man with a pointed hat walking through a crowd in high-waist pants and a cardigan.

The ice cream shop was shut for the day, it seemed. One of the biggest shops, though. Only ‘one of’, because the one directly across from it was _definitely_ the biggest.

And the flashiest. Nearly entirely covering the second story windows was a massive, neon sign that read _Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes_. Two cartoon-ish faces with spiky red hair and winking eyes looked down on him.

The inside was even more chaotic than he expected. Every package burst with color. Every package seemed to have its own display. Every _display_ was lit up and blinking words in his direction. Rows and rows of them, each name more ridiculous and intriguing than the last. The second level looked less garish, but it was quite a ways to get to the steps.

A good amount of people were there. A pair of young men boisterously played a game of pinball. Every time one of them lost the ball, they were squirted with a spray that Harry could smell all the way across the room. Three boys none older than ten ran around pointing, followed by a harried looking older woman. A man around Harry’s age tried to decide between Amortentia or Beguiling Bubbles-scented perfumes.

“Oi!” A voice called as he meandered. George slid down the banister, hopping down to his feet in front of Harry in neon orange robes, three large W’s stamped across the chest. “This is a surprise. What brings you here?”

His voice was loud, friendlier than it had been last night. Harry let his eyes go wide, stepping in and speaking in a hushed tone.

“Can you help me? I – I can’t seem to remember…who I am.”

George’s smirk dropped away slowly. His eyes went wide as saucers, and Harry couldn’t hold the act any longer. He snorted.

“That’s for the chicken.”

George’s mouth dropped open. “Devious. I’m impressed. Does – I mean, do you – ?”

Harry shook his head. “Nothing’s changed since last night.”

“Oh.” George looked put out. “And shopping’s a priority?”

“Not exactly. I wanted to get Teddy something. To send back with his letter.”

“Oh!” He brightened, clapping his hands together. “I’ve been getting ready to send him something, myself. A care package, if you will. Come up and see?”

“Sure.” Harry flinched at his yell, as did several other customers.

“Can you handle this, Mel?!”

The bored twenty-something behind the check-out gave a thumbs up. George beckoned Harry up the steps, giving him a few seconds to take in the tea-and-biscuit flavored soap display as he pulled a keyring from his pocket and opened up a door.

“Wait – that soap is _flavored?”_

George grinned. “Edible Soap,” he said in a mock-announcer’s baritone. “You’ll be sneezing bubbles for hours!”

Harry stepped past him and began climbing the winding set of steps. “Do you make _anything_ of practical use?”

“Sure we do!” The door shut behind George with an echoing bang. “All our jokes are practical.”

At the top of the flight was an unlocked door that led to a flat. The harsh, blinking lights of the sign outside were the only light filtering into the cramped sitting room, which was piled with cardboard sets of un-folded product boxes. Clearly more of a workspace than a parlor.

George flicked a light switch in the kitchen, casting the gloom away. A muggle coffee-maker sat near the sink, two orange mugs next to it.

“That’s it, there,” he shook a banker’s box on the table. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Neither.” Harry sat and pulled the box closer, alarmed at the weight of the contents. It was quite a lot to send all at once. Looking at the labels, it was quite a _lot._ “What does Teddy need with love potions?”

“ _Twilight Moonbeams_ ,” George yawned, sticking a mug under the tap and heating it with a spell. “Drink it, and someone nearby will moon over you for an hour. Nothing too morbid – the fun’s in running around trying to figure out who it is.”

That was rather horrifying. “They allow this sort of thing at Hogwarts?”

George sat, letting his tea steep. Again, something had changed. He was more drawn into himself up here. Or just sober. “Weasley products are officially banned. Then again, Flitwick ordered thirty Headless Hats for his class just last week, so…” He shrugged. “Foot in the door, and all that.”

Harry glanced up dubiously, turning over a bag of _Patented Daydream Charm._ “I dunno, I think he just wanted some sweets…”

“Just pick out the stuff that _offends_ you, grandmum.”

“Like this, you mean?” Harry’s voice had turned stern without him deciding. “ _Detonating Dung Powder!”_

“That one’s not actually what it sounds like – “

“It makes you shit yourself,” Harry guessed. George snapped his mouth closed. “Explosively. Absolutely not.”

He set it to the side, along with the _Box of Pyrotechnix_. Care package. Right.

“Care- _less_ package, more like,” he muttered under his breath.

He looked up when George gasped, alarmed when he Summoned a pad of paper and started scribbling madly with a pen. “Harry, that’s _genius.”_

Trying not to be too much a spoilsport, Harry left the _Electric Shock Shake._ “What is?”

“Care- _less_ packages! I’ve been trying to break market with the parents for _ages_.”

Harry scratched his beard, scowling. “I just said I _didn’t_ like it.”

“Not this stuff – just think! We’re ubiquitous around campus. You know it’s being passed around – what if you could send your special tyke the _Puking Pastilles_ they’ve been asking for, but they’ve got a secret _health_ component. Multivitamins, Pepper-Up, Wiggenweld, _broccoli._ ”

He’d slipped into the ridiculous announcer’s voice again. “You want to send broccoli flavored sweets?”

“Details, details,” George dismissed, sipping his tea while he wrote. Harry continued parsing out anything explosive – intestinal or otherwise – until only the relatively inane candies and games remained.

“What do you think of – “ George stopped as the door opened in the other room. The way he snapped his head up sent apprehension through Harry’s chest. Was this a break-in? In a _joke_ _shop?_

“Babe?” A voice called, along with the scuffling of someone kicking their shoes off. Harry relaxed. George didn’t.

“In here,” he answered, looking nervous.

A heavy-set black man rounded the corner. He must have just taken his robes off, because the short-sleeved polo wasn’t at all right for the weather. Short dreadlocks were stuck out from a knot on the back of his head.

“Oh. Hey, Harry.” He ruffled George’s hair and squeezed his shoulder, peering into the box. “What are you two up to?”

George placed his hand over the one on his arm briefly. “Just having tea with our biggest shareholder. You’re early.”

“Well, excuse _me_.” The man said, clearly noting Harry’s lack of tea. “Don’t have too much fun. I’m gonna go shower the pitch off me.”

“Fine.” The man walked off and disappeared through a door down the hall. In the quiet, George frowned at Harry, who tried not to look too surprised. “That’s Lee.”

“Alright.”

He hadn’t seen George look uncomfortable before now. “Look, you’re the only one who knows about…him.”

“Oh.” Harry raised his eyebrows. “As of…right now?”

“No, no. You knew before.” He looked down at his tea. “I knew it wouldn’t be a big deal if I told you, because…you’re sort of – “

“Gay,” Harry finished, with a bit of relief. “I figured.”

George twiddled with his pen. He still looked rather tired, Harry thought.

“And you’re the only one who knows that about me?”

At his nod, Harry rubbed his eyes. It made a certain amount of sense that it was such a secret. The papers would go mad for that information. But not even Ron? Hermione? “Why don’t you tell your family? You think they’d be upset?”

“It’s just…easier? You haven’t heard mum go on about wanting grandchildren.”

“Well, erm.” That was sad. At least George wasn’t entirely alone. “I’m sorry it has to be that way. How long have you been together?”

George gave him a look for his polite tone. “Officially? Two years. I think. We were best mates in school, the three of – erm, but he moved abroad after the war.” He glanced away, crossing his arms. “I actually wanted to tell you something…but I didn’t know exactly how.”

His strange looks from the night before. Harry leaned forward. “Yeah?”

“Not terribly long ago, you made it seem like…like you were seeing someone.”

Harry’s stomach twisted in knots. “Oh, no.”

“Yeah. Judging your expression, they haven’t come calling.”

“Who is it?”

“You wouldn’t say,” he shrugged. “Got really cagey about it, actually. Maybe you ended things already?”

He sounded doubtful. “Yeah,” Harry snorted, ignoring the deep hope that maybe _he_ hadn’t been alone, either. “And maybe I’ve been ghosting someone who thought things were going well.”

And they would have seen him in the papers, looking totally normal and alive. No clue as to his loss of memory.

“Well,” George’s cheer only barely sounded forced. He was probably glad to get that off his chest. It was Harry’s problem, now. “All’s fair in love and war. Even ten years after the fact. You’re good to send this lot?”

Harry nodded, and George magicked the package down into something small enough for an owl to carry. “You can send it off with Pig, if you like.”

He cleared his throat. “You have an owl named Pig?”

“Yeah. Or you can use the service at Leaky.”

Harry thought about it, glancing at the window to gauge the time. “Nah, that’s all right. I wanted to send Todd back.”

George’s scribbling slowed to a stop again. “Todd?”

“Oh.” Harry felt quite silly. “Temporary name for Teddy’s owl. I just made it up.”

“No – “ He set his pen down. “Teddy’s owl is named Tod _rick._ ”

 _What?_ Harry thought desperately back, trying to recall anyone telling him that name since he’d woken up. He could have just seen it written down somewhere, but the only personal things of his he’d gone through just yet were Teddy’s letters, and he was sure it wasn’t in there.

“Well, that’s a bit insulting,” George said flatly. “You remember the bloody owl’s name and not _mine?”_

But he hadn’t really remembered…had he? He didn’t know if he should feel victorious or worried. “Sorry.”

“Fine. Just fine.” George pushed the box toward him and examined the pile of explosives with intent. Harry wondered just how much of that – if not all – would make its way to Teddy anyway. “You’d better get going before Lee comes back out here. He’ll ask you about Dolohov.”

Harry wasn’t at all eager for that. He put the box in his pocket and stood, regretful he hadn’t gotten to spend any money. “You haven’t told him?”

George walked with him down the staircase, lowering his voice where it would echo. “Ron swore us to secrecy.”

“Yeah, but – “ But Fleur was allowed to know, he almost pointed out. Instead, he teased. “I mean, if _you’re_ trustworthy enough, I don’t mind your telling him.”

“Really?” They were in the shop proper, now. Squeals of delight emanated from the floor below, followed by mechanical laughter and pinball dings. “Are you sure?”

“Why not?”

“That’s…” George shook his head, physically cringing away from a real moment. “Appreciated.”

As Harry walked back down Diagon Alley, he almost thought he’d get back home without incident. Toward the brick wall that would take him back to the Leaky Cauldron, a bright flash of light forced his attention to an older woman in chartreuse robes. The second his eyes landed on her, she ducked through a door. _Daily Prophet Outpost._ Fantastic.

He didn’t pull his hood back down until he was safely in his own home. Todd – Tod _rick_ , evidently – was asleep on top of a bookshelf. Harry left him to it, shedding his robes and running up the steps to his office. A quick look through the desk drawers produced an envelope, quill, and string.

All he needed was a sign-off. He flattened the parchment down on the kitchen table, dipping the quill in ink and thinking. Everything looked fine. Ron had proofread – for personality mistakes, not grammatical – and given the thumbs-up. He still wanted part of this to be just from him.

 _If George does send you that Dung Powder nonsense,_ he wrote at the end. _At least have the sense to use it on him, unsuspecting._

That wasn’t enough. It didn’t feel…paternal? Authoritative? He didn’t know what, exactly, their rapport was.

 _I love you,_ he wrote. And it didn’t feel like an untruth. After signing his name, he folded it into the envelope – with a few sickles – and addressed it with a simple _Teddy_.

“Todrick,” he said, clucking his tongue as he tied string around the box. There was a sleepy _coo_ from the other room, then the flapping of wings. The owl landed right on top of the box, clutching his claws over the string. It was just over half his size, but he looked confident enough. Harry tied the letter to his leg and leaned to push up the window.

“Safe journeys.”

Todrick flapped his wings once, making a friendly sound, then Harry was leaning away from the rush of feathers as he swooped outside. Relief was short lived. That was just one problem out of his way, and hardly the last. There was the matter of the forgotten…person. Less than a boyfriend, it seemed. Serious enough that he’d told George.

There was a lot to do.

____________________________

Ron found him on the floor, surrounded by photo albums. As there were only three, this probably wasn’t the deep dive Harry had felt it was. But he’d spend the better part of an hour on the rug, flipping through his past.

He didn’t think these had been made by him. There was a crafty, considered touch to the organization of the photos. The first book almost entirely belonged to Teddy. From toddler to Hogwarts letter, his life had been catalogued. One picture had gotten him stuck for almost ten entire minutes, unable to look away. Him and Teddy – somewhere between three and five – asleep together on Hermione’s couch. Teddy’s small form was sprawled across Harry’s chest, on hand fisted against his chin.

His hair color changed throughout. Sometimes it was red, or brown (depending, Harry assumed, on who’d he spent the day with), but as he got older things made a turn for the primary. Unlike the photos in his office, he looked happy. He smiled with Teddy.

He smiled when he himself was younger, too. The second album appeared to be his Hogwarts days. Before the _Prophet_ had really started in on him, as there were clippings added to the sleeves that placed the pictures in time. _Rumours of Slytherin’s Monster Sweeping Hogwarts’ Board, Hogwarts Groundskeeper in Azkaban, Sirius Black Escapes Ministry Holding, Historic Fourth Entry in the Triwizard Tournament._

None of the actual photos seemed to be taken _at_ school. It was always the Weasley’s house, and it was always the holidays. Until the papers were dated 1996, and the pictures were at another house, instead.

The headlines became extremely benign. It sent a shiver up his spine, thinking of the Ministry take over he’d been told of. It was him, the Weasleys, Hermione, and several other people he did not know. Everyone seemed in good spirits, but the house was like an extra, scowling presence in the background. One photo of George and someone who looked exactly like him had the rug in it. The same rug Harry was sitting on now.

So much information, and nothing to suggest he’d had any sort of romantic relationship.

The third binder, when he pulled it open, wasn’t a photo album at all, but a scrapbook. The first page was a smiling woman with curly blonde hair, holding _this book_ in the photograph.

 _Luna & Harry,_ a golden, glittery quill had written in cursive on the bottom of the page. He frowned at it, and that’s about when he was interrupted.

“What’s this?” He asked immediately. Ron set a take-out bag on the coffee table, snickering.

“We all have one. She shoves her camera in our faces every time she visits.”

“Luna…” It was nice to put a face to the name. “She works with Neville. In Hogsmeade.”

“Right.” Ron sank down beside him, knocking their knees together as he flipped the scrapbook about three pages in. “That’s their greenhouse.”

It was a semi-focused muggle photo of Harry standing at a table with a tall, pale man. They both had shears in their hands. The caption read: _pruning the mandrakes 15/10/2006._

He turned to the second album, pointing out an image of the whole Weasley clan with Harry and a young Hermione pressed in on either side of Molly. “Where was this taken?”

Ron made a disgusted face. “Grimmauld Place. We stayed there when the Death Eaters were hunting you.”

“ _Everyone,_ though?”

“Yeah.” Ron smiled at the memory. “It’s protected by Fidelus, so while Dumbledore was Secret-Keeper, it was the only safe place for us to be. Horrible house, but we had good times.”

Harry flipped to the next page, Ron answering his questions without being asked.

“It’s your house, now. Sirius left it to you. I don’t remember the last time you actually went over there – after Kreacher passed away, you and Hermione warded it to bollocks and that’s pretty much been that.”

“I still own it?”

“Yeah. Bit hard to sell, and anyone who’d want it must be dodgy.”

Harry looked down at the rug. Old, perhaps once beautiful but now rotting at the edges. “Why’s that?”

Ron was looking through the old Christmas photos with a half-smile. “Well, the Black family – historically – hates muggles and anything to do with them. And so does the house.”

It was a disturbing thought. “What’s a Kreacher?”

“ _That_ ,” Ron said, slapping a finger down one a photo from Grimmauld Place. “Is Kreacher. He was the House Elf.”

Blurry, in one dim corner of a photo in a kitchen, was a huddled, scowling shape. More gargoyle than House Elf, and truly terrifying. “It’s just sitting empty?”

“Er, I suppose? Like I said, I don’t know if you’ve been there or not. Maybe you used it for storage or something.”

Interesting.

Ron looked up with a thoughtful expression. “We could go there, if you like? Maybe a new Boggart settled in we could take care of.”

Harry nodded. “Sure. Tomorrow?” His eyes fell on the plastic bag as Ron nodded. “S’that for me?”

“Only half,” Ron chuckled, leaning forward to snag it closer, handing over one Styrofoam box. Harry whipped it open, inhaling the steaming grease and fish smell.

“Another favorite place?”

Ron nodded, tucking in. “Muggle. Near the Ministry.”

They ate ravenously in quiet for a few minutes, browsing the photos. The fried fish was heavenly, and so greasy he knew he’d feel like shit the whole night. “Find anything at the Archives?”

Ron shoved all the unchewed food in his mouth to one cheek so he could speak. “Binding magic. Not very well known, but then again our Archive doesn’t have a huge selection of Dark books. I spent two hours going through a book called _Gouging the Groteque_ , but there was nothing in it about ‘Arthurian’ magic, or anything really relevant. You need to make some Inferi, though, I’m your man.”

He swallowed, nearly choking. Harry hit him on the back.

“Gallahey and Seamus,” he went on with watering eyes. “Looked through some old fairy tales about Merlin. We might need to bring in some sort of literary expert, though, because when they _do_ talk about magic in those books is in, like, Middle English. They say _wand_ when they mean _staff,_ and vice versa. And plant names have changed so much, there’s no telling dogwood from peonies.”

“Literary expert,” Harry snorted. “That an official Ministry position?”

“Certainly not mine.” Ron pushed up and rustled around the fridge for a minute, returning with a bottle of vinegar. “How was your trip, eh? Get the letter sent off?”

Harry nodded, starting in on an abridged version of his day.

“ – and all the goblins were side-eyeing me, a bit – “

“Oh!” Ron cackled. “We didn’t mention that one yet. The goblins haven’t forgotten we broke in and stole their dragon.”

Harry dropped the chip he was holding back into the pile. “You’re having me on. I _know_ you are.”

“I’m not!” He cried, indignant. “Believe me, I couldn’t make up a story like that if I tried.”

“Hm,” Harry hummed doubtfully, going on with the rest. Ron’s smile dropped away when he mentioned knowing Todrick’s name.

“You had a memory?”

“Well, not exactly…I mean, I thought I was making something up on the spot, so – “

“Did you tell ‘Mione?”

“I thought she’d come here with you.”

“No, no she’s working late.” Ron pushed the empty container away. “I’ll tell her later, assuming I’m up. Have you…known anything else you shouldn’t?”

“I don’t know. No,” he decided. He should just tell Ron now. _I’m gay_. And let the pieces fall. At least, when he did get his memories back, he couldn’t go back to this forced isolation. It seemed unlikely that Ron would care.

The moment passed them by. Ron gestured to the television.

“Remember how to play video games?”


	3. Abdicatus

The week marched on, and Harry did not recover his memories. There was no miraculous, enlightening zap of brainpower that snapped him out of it. Just a gradual settling into this life.

The tea was good, at least. Finally, he had proper bagged tea that didn’t flood between his lips like grass. He’d gone for groceries late Thursday after a visit to Gringotts to sort out muggle-money conversions with Fleur. She’d tried explaining how it worked, but he found pretty quickly he already knew.

Choosing to shop muggle was the right decision - the lack of a robe left him a bit bare, but the eyes that passed over him were disinterested and on their way to something else. His face (scar) was a scenic stop, not a destination. 

How quickly he’d accepted the staring and paranoia, let it settle in the back of his head to the point where anything else was out of the norm. The concept of truly blending in was surreal. Not that he was too relaxed – his wand was always just a second away, stuck in his inner jacket pocket where he could grab it in a second if anything happened. Thankfully, it wasn’t necessary.

He grabbed as much produce as he could carry, hoping to ease off the takeout. Five minutes into a search for owl treats, he remembered where he was and simply picked up an extra apple.

The weather stayed humid and drizzling, never quite warm enough to forgo a jumper. Hermione was distant. They obviously spent their mornings together, behind that mysterious black door, but aside from that she kept busy, ushering him into the lift right after Obliviating him. Remembering owl's name had only seemed to consternate her more. She never let on as to why.

Friday was spent at the Archives. Half the team was away collecting on an ignored fine subpoena from the Wizengamot, leaving Harry, Ron and Dean to trudge into the Camden Catacombs.

“No Apparating,” Dean said miserably, hopping down into the muddy gravel beneath the Castlehaven Overpass. His transfigured Wellingtons squelched. “No Floo. It’s barbaric.”

The sounds of the open air market over the wall behind them were considerably dulled by the many muggle-repelling charms, and completely gone as they entered the shielded entrance to the underground tunnels. Icy air billowed out at them as they walked, and Harry was sufficiently creeped out by the dark damp and glistening walls by the time it all shimmered and became a very chilly, high-ceilinged library.

Shedding their outerwear and boots, they sat in a private room and waited for a mousy blonde wizard to bring them the documents they’d been working on all week. An ancient Auror manuscript had them particularly stumped – the cursive was so spindly and rushed it looked more like artwork than actual English. Their time on it was wasted - the gist seemed to concern Horcruxes, but it wasn’t as detailed as any of them would have liked.

“Really hard to find information on those,” Ron told him.

“Why’s that?” Harry asked, then shook his head. “Right. Voldemort. Evil soul-tearing magic.”

“A-plus,” Dean winked.

Harry didn’t feel terribly useful. He mostly sat back and listened to Ron and Dean spin their theories, wondering if he could possibly weasel his way out of the pub night they had planned.

He never managed. Élise and Hermione – considerately – stayed sober with him. Hermione showed up late and strategically placed herself on the far side of the booth, so Ron was sandwiched between them. His loud voice and constant gesturing made it impossible for Harry to ask her any questions.

He and Élise picked at the Ploughman’s Lunch in the center of the sticky table while Debra and the other guys compensated by putting down far too much beer. The muggle pub was crowded and smoky. Oddly comforting, again, to not be stared at.

“Yeah, but Malfoy’s probably using the Manor library,” Hermione consoled them at their lack of progress. “So many of those pre-Renaissance texts were sold out of public hands – the pureblood families keep them in private collections.”

Ron’s pint hit the wood heavily. “I just wanted to know enough to tell if he’s feeding us bullshit. No way to step foot inside that mansion without a warrant – and Kingsley’s not bloody likely to grant that.”

“We’ll know on Monday, in all in anyways,” Seamus reminded him, settling into Dean’s side and finishing off his beer. “Can we stop talking about work now? You’re turning me into a bitter drunk.”

“Harry,” Élise said decisively, leaning forward. Her dark eyes gleamed teasingly as he visibly braced himself. “You’re quiet tonight.”

“Am I not usually?”

“Yeah,” Dean frowned. “But you’re, like, smiling.”

“Merlin,” Harry said around a bite of pickle. “Should I apologize?”

“No!” Dean said quickly. “It’s fine, you’re just sober is all.”

Debra snorted into her beer. Élise gave her a disapproving look. “What? It was funny!”

Ron and Hermione shared a look that Harry just caught. He rolled his eyes and bought the next two rounds as a bribe to stay out of the spotlight. It worked – they passed the next few hours talking about other things, leaving Harry to sit and take in as much as he could. At some point, it was just too much. Names, places, events. The sounds of their voices became more comforting than their words.

Ron leaned heavily against him on the way out, bemoaning his empty stomach. His whining had Hermione and Harry in stitches.

“Harry,” she grunted, attempting to help in the half-carrying of her husband. “You know you’re welcome at ours.”

She was worried about him. “I know that.”

She didn’t say anything else for a minute, until they were safely hidden in an alley. No muggles would see them Apparate. “I’ll just be off then. I’m making dinner tomorrow – no arguments.”

“I wouldn’t dream of arguing with you.”

She giggled, a little high-pitched. “Night, Harry.”

“Night.”

Ron mumbled something that sounded similar, and they popped off into nothingness.

It was an utter relief to be alone. He thought it with no small amount of guilt, but the air seemed fresher as he walked home. Did socializing exhaust him this much before? Maybe it was easier when he knew what they were talking about. Either way, this was much nicer.

He’d taken a walk around his little neighborhood just before dark the other day, stopping at the end of the street and watching the crush of muggles walk past the entrance to what they saw as a narrow, dirty alley.

If he was friendly with his neighbors, it didn’t come up. The shine of his celebrity must have worn off with these people. A very old wizard nodded politely to him, busy supervising the unmanned rakes moving over his lawn. Directly to the left was a married couple with an excitable basset-hound that barked in the mornings. Any children on the block must have been away, at Hogwarts with Teddy.

It was late when he made it back from the pub. The neighbor’s windows were dark, the streetlights keening in the quiet. He showered the smoke and grime away and lounged on the couch with a book about Quidditch. It was only one of many, and he needed to recover a lot of knowledge before Sunday and his inevitable rematch with Ginny.

With his feet kicked up, his damp hair twisted into a bun while the television played cannily in the background, he felt truly at home.

It was the first night he didn’t feel awkward in this house. So far he’d pictured himself as a guest, but that couldn’t last forever. The gradual settling part of all of this had to include accepting that this was his house, and so he allowed himself to relax a bit as late night programming played in full force. The Darjeeling was light and sweet, fogging his glasses with every sip.

The book hitting the floor snapped him awake some time later. He sat with practiced (and forgotten) alarm. Something told him to draw his wand, but he suppressed it as he looked down at the open pages. Nothing amiss - he just nodded off like someone’s grandfather.

He still checked the locks, aware of how silly it was. Metal locks were essentially useless next to the protective charms he was sure he had on the property.

He settled into his bed with a sigh of contentment. The duvet was soft and warm over his bare skin, but the urge to sleep had completely gone. They were going to Hogwarts in the morning – not too early, judging by Ron’s state. Harry was excited. And apprehensive. And bloody terrified.

It would just be a lie to say any of those things were keeping him awake.

After some tossing and turning, he flopped to his back and sighed again. With trepidation, and – ridiculously – _guilt_ , he slid a hand into his pants. His flaccid cock just barely twitched as he pulled a hand up over it. People did this, didn’t they? And it would certainly put him to sleep. The urge had been there the past few days, particularly in the mornings. He’d staunchly ignored all of them.

No, he decided, pulling his hand away and clenching it at his side. He had a good idea who he’d think about if he did. And it just wasn’t on.

 _Gradual,_ he reminded himself.

He rolled to his side, and he didn’t touch himself. It did nothing to stop the thoughts.

___________________________

Ron Apparated them to a place that looked remarkably like Diagon Alley. The buildings were all gray or white, but their windows burst with color. Warmth emanated from the protruding glass displays in the lower levels, and the lit candles in the upper ones. A very tame Diagon Alley.

And much colder. He pulled his cloak tighter, shivering at the punishing wind. The sky was dark, committing to neither rain or snow.

“Hogsmeade,” Ron said, bouncing on his feet with excitement. “Closest Apparition point to the school.”

“It’s quiet,” Harry couldn’t help but notice, checking the time as Dean and Seamus Apparated a few feet over. It wasn't too early.

“Not for long, I’m certain.”

“Right,” Harry said, noticing _Honeydukes_ a few fronts over. “Where’s the greenhouse?”

Ron pointed to a low, brick-front building with a glass roof, half behind a shop called _Dogweed and Deathcap_. “Doesn’t look like he’s in, yet.”

“Who? Neville?” Seamus shuddered against the cold as he walked over.

“Too early,” Dean yawned. “You did tell him we were coming, didn’t you?”

Ron shrugged, and then there was a third, final _crack_. Debra stomped over, arms wrapped tight around her middle, a thick black scarf nearly covering her omni-present frown. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

There was some more muttered, hungover conversation. Harry looked around, charmed. The town was settled into the bottom of a hill. Pine, birch and alder trees spanned every direction in a wide spectrum of oranges and yellows, bleeding out into foggy mountains and hills.

It seemed deserted until a witch Apparated just ahead of them, fumbling with a set of keys outside a building called _The Three Broomsticks._ She did a double take at them.

“Is that a Weasley I see?”

Ron raised a hand. “Hullo, Madame Rosmerta.”

She pulled her scarf away, letting curly gray locks blow freely. “I’m just opening up! You _will_ stop in for a drink?”

“We’re on duty, Rosmerta,” Debra sighed. Harry thought that was only half the reason – they all still showed the signs of their late night.

Rosmerta tapped her nose, closing one eye. “And you, Mr. Potter!” She grinned an accusation. “Just can’t keep out of the papers, can you?”

Oh, Christ. “Guess not,” he mumbled, earning another smile. Chagrin must have been what she expected.

“Well, you’ll have to come back this way, no?” She let herself in with a dismissive wave. “I’ve just got a barrel of Beetle Berry – aged forty years!”

“’Ta!” Seamus exclaimed, suddenly interested. Debra started walking, shaking her head to herself.

The line of shops ended at an empty train station. A thin trail of smoke rose from one chimney, wafting past a large black owl sat on a gutter. Ron said the students got off here, canoeing across a lake or riding carriages up to the castle. There did seem to be a path behind the station, but their group walked on toward the trees.

“This walk gets longer every damned time,” Ron moped, face red as they climbed a steep incline. The well-trod trail bobbed and weaved over poking tree trunks. “I miss the Thestrals.”

Harry wondered over that statement, breathing a little hard at the exertion. Too hard, perhaps. Some of his stomach muscles were noticeably faded already at the lack of exercise. “You can’t Apparate into the school?”

Ron laughed. “No.”

Leaves rustled beside and above them. Some blew right off their branches in the sudden gust, swirling wildly in the crisp air. They were in Scotland, but he hadn’t expected it to be _this_ cold.

“I can’t feel my face,” he noticed aloud. “The Warming Charm wore off already.”

Debra grunted and hit Dean with her elbow, clearly too cold and irritated to speak.

“Hogsmeade,” he explained hastily. “Magic’s all wonky here. They have to keep the students under control when they visit.”

They crested the hill, but it was a while longer before the trees started to thin. Ron’s exhaustion turned to excitement, his glances at Harry coming more frequently. It might have just been Ron’s weirdness, but the reason for it became clear.

Harry got his first look at the castle.

‘Castle’ almost seemed like an understatement. It might have been a hundred castles, all mashed together and existing simultaneously against all laws of physics. A majestic gathering of soaring turrets and barbicans of pale, worn gray. Smoke drifted up from several towers. Not a ruin of some old stronghold, as he had expected. _Definitely_ not a school.

But _massive_. Like it might sprawl on forever, pulled straight from old story book. The kind where magic wasn’t wands and incantations but something airborne. Breathed and imbibed. Despite the hour – and weather – many little cloaked figures strolled around the browning lawns. Some walked. Some threw what looked like frisbees.

His footsteps didn’t halt for more than a second, but he felt everyone watching.

“Wow,” he summed up. Ron grinned his agreement.

“I remember it like yesterday,” Seamus said wistfully. Debra wasn’t as misty-eyed, but her frown softened as she looked at the superstructure. “And you don’t remember it at all. Weird.”

“Don’t have to tell me.”

The trees fell away, and they came up on a dirt road. A gate sat between them and the castle, wrought iron and tall. Sinister gargoyles bared their teeth on either side, one with a large crack down the center of its face, like it had been blasted off and fixed back on later.

A tall, slender figure awaited them, cloaked in trailing maroon.

“That’s McGonagall,” Ron whispered, waving. The figure didn’t wave back, but when she raised her wand the gate gave a massive shudder and creaked open. “I owled her about you already. Don’t worry – she’s not the sentimental type.”

Dean tried to cover his laugh with a violent cough.

As he stepped over the threshold, magic swept over him. It was strong enough for him to notice – the magic around the Ministry and his house were subtle, hidden. This was brusque and unmistakable. Nothing anyone would be Apparating past, he could tell.

All it left behind was a vague sense of warmth. No one else reacted to it, and as the gate creaked shut the figure pulled it’s hood down.

McGonagall. No one had anything bad to say about her, but even the good things were tinged with respectful terror.

“Aurors,” she said in a thick, stern brogue. Her face was severe – all thin lips and arched eyebrows. Telling her age was difficult. Clearly, she was elderly, but there was a steely set to her back and a sharp intelligence in her clear brown eyes. “I’m certain your presence here will rile my students.”

Every word was flat and reprimanding. Harry was a bit impressed that Ron could smile so openly.

“Yes, well, I had to go become an Auror before you’d let me in the Restricted Section.”

Seamus looked uneasy. Harry thought she’d bake Ron on the spot with her glare alone, then her lips twitched the slightest amount. It could have been a cackle, for all it shocked Harry. She waved them on, starting at a brisk stride toward the castle.

“I’ve ordered the library cleared for the morning. You should expect quite the crowd.”

“How’s the semester going?” Seamus asked, stuck between respectful and cowering. They were meant to be trained professionals, Harry thought uncharitably.

“Well, Mr. Finnigan.”

Harry looked up as they approached a high wall. Teddy was in there, somewhere. Harry hadn’t told him an exact time. Was he waiting?

Ron darted ahead to pull open a gateway door for them. It led to a not-quite-warm enough stone hall, open on the sides to an empty courtyard. McGonagall stopped just inside, her hands folded somewhere inside her cloak. “I do not believe you need an escort to find the library.”

“Not at all,” Debra said quickly, nodding. Dean and Seamus followed, casting curious looks over their shoulders as they rounded a corner.

“Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall said, so sharply that Harry jumped. Ron looked stuck in headlights, all signs of Head Aurorship blinking away under her ire. “I assure you, nothing will happen to Potter should he leave your sight.”

It was rather harsh, Harry thought. But Ron nodded and stepped back, giving him a shrug as he followed the others. And then he was alone with her.

For the first time, she looked at him. Abruptly, he understood. It was very, very scary. He made a concerted effort not to shrink away from her gaze. It wasn’t angry, he hoped, but her features didn’t seem like they’d allow for much else. Ginny’s description had been bang-on: _bloody terrifying._

She pursed her lips and stuck out a gloved hand. He took it warily. “You may call me Minerva.”

“Oh.” Was that a test? It sort of felt like one. “Lovely to meet you, er, Minerva.” It felt wrong to call her that, when even Ron never did.

Her eyebrows came together almost disapprovingly as she drew her hand back. The steady shrewdness reminded him of Hermione – he was being very carefully examined. For what, he didn’t know. He nearly just asked where Teddy was. She started walking before he could.

“This way, Mr. Potter.”

He followed, tugging the collar of his cloak a bit looser. Questions buzzed through his head as they walked. Maybe he just wanted to fill the silence. Soon enough, he was sufficiently distracted by hundreds of eyes turned in his direction.

Not students, but portraits. The larger hall they turned into was warmer, lit by torches that threw relief to the many framed works of art. They moved like photographs, which was less alarming than the fact that he was clearly being whispered about. Even the canvas-and-oil scribbles knew more about him than he did. Fantastic.

At the end of that hall was a massive chamber. His eyes went up six, seven stories before he lost count. It was difficult when the staircases kept moving. Some twisted on an axis, and as he watched one set turned completely smooth. A long flat ramp with a four story drop.

“Is that – ?” He stopped himself, about to ask if that was safe. Clearly, it wasn’t. He saw a group of students in matching green scarves come to a quick halt at the top of it, turning for another as it rotated over to the landing. Fuck – surely there was at least one blind student?

“This way,” Minerva said. He started walking automatically, hurrying to keep up.

The next turn – a low tunnel – led them deeper into the castle. The air lost some of its chill and he could feel his nose again. All of the portraits here seemed to recognize him, but he kept his eyes firmly forward, stomach turning. Was she taking him straight to Teddy?

Finally, his anxiety caught up, and he opened his mouth. She held up a finger for silence, pushing open a heavy wooden door on the right. Warmth flooded out.

“Professor, may we have the room?” She asked pointedly, hanging her cloak on a hook. The space was small and warm. Four armchairs, some artwork, and a large wardrobe adorned the walls. One of them housed a thin man, deep green robes draped over his crossed legs. He was rather handsome, though his curious expression turned sour as he met Harry’s eyes. With a snap, he closed his book and strode off through another door. All without a word.

“Who was that?” Harry asked quietly, knowing the answer.

“Potions Master Zabini.”

“I’ve heard about him.”

She raised one eyebrow as she sat with brittle grace at a short oak table, bare save a vase of knotgrass and Valerian.

“You’ve been under the care of the Unspeakables? What are their theories?”

“Well…” he exhaled, taking the wooden chair next to her, turning it to put a bit of space between their knees. There was a void where he’d come to expect Ron answering for him. “I don’t think they have anything concrete. We know Dolohov did this to me.”

Her face darkened. “And you’ve enlisted the help of Draco Malfoy.”

He felt his mouth fall open a bit as he scrambled to cope with this subject. The simple fact that he was unbalanced only unbalanced him _more._ “I know I’ve lost – er, forgotten things. But with everything I’ve learned…it seemed an oversight to ignore him. Since he was a Death Eater, and all.”

“I’m fully aware of the advantages,” she dismissed, waving a hand. “It’s my understanding that the endeavor was your idea.”

So she’d definitely heard this from Ron. “It was.”

She stared, eyebrows raised slightly in expectation. Harry started talking, his brain only a half-step ahead of his mouth.

“I know that everyone has plenty of reason not to trust him. I do. But none of it seems to justify letting this go on. If he can help, which he claims he can, then I don’t see a reason to turn him away. I think a lot of this was just – just petty rivalry. I mean, we’re adults, aren’t we? It feels wrong to go on blaming him for any of this when I know it’s not his fault. This time, anyway.”

He wasn’t sure why he’d added any of that last half. Sheer nerves.

Minerva looked faintly - very faintly - disturbed.

“I’m – I’m sorry. That was too – “

“No.” She’d taken off her gloves. Her bare hand was bony and dry against his as she reached out to squeeze it. “I quite agree.”

“You do?” He asked, startled. That was a first.

“How do you plan on moving forward?” Her hand pulled away and wrapped around a cup of tea that had definitely not been there a moment previous. “You’re going to tell the boy of your condition?”

Another subject change. Harry nodded slowly. “It may go on for quite a while.”

“Indeed.” Her tone gave nothing away. “How are you adjusting?”

She didn’t look at his scar, but he was suddenly very aware of it. “I’m, erm, fine. It’s everyone else who seems to…”

“I can imagine. Mr. Weasley has always made your well-being a priority.”

“Pardon?”

Her smile was wry. “I won’t give you a history lesson, Potter. Now, I believe someone is waiting for you.”

He didn’t comment on the fact that they stepped out onto the fourth floor. Honestly, the way this day was going he could have been wrong about entering from the first. They were above the turning staircases now. A few students here and there saw them and skittered away.

“How is he?” Harry couldn’t help but ask. She looked over, something sad in the turn of her mouth. “As a student?”

“Brilliant, naturally. Respectful and very discreet about his wrongdoings.” Her eyes glinted with amusement. Harry hoped that meant he hadn’t been caught with any Weasley products yet. “I instructed him to wait for you in the Common Room, though I doubt – “

“ _Harry!”_

They both turned. Harry’s heart jumped to his throat. All this time to think on it, and he still wasn’t prepared.

Two boys sprinted down the long hall, robes billowing. One of them had bright purple hair, and Harry felt a grin steal over his face. He opened his arms just as Teddy barreled into him. His head came to Harry’s shoulder, which surprised him. He’d expected shorter.

“Teddy,” he breathed, trying to memorize this feeling. Before he ruined it.

“You’re here! We saw you from the tower and ran as fast as we could – “ He stopped short, looking over Harry’s shoulder and blushing. “Headmistress!”

A glance showed her stern frown back in full force. “Mr. Lupin.”

When it was clear he wasn’t about to be reprimanded for running off, his smile returned. Harry let him step away, still blushing. “Sorry – this is Reena!”

Not a boy, Harry realized belatedly, smiling at the other figure. “Reena. From the letters.”

“Hi,” she squeaked.

“Ms. Abadi,” Minerva cut in, enough ice in her voice to make both students straighten their spines. “With me.”

“Y-Yes, Headmistress.”

Minerva gave Harry a very serious nod as they left.

“What’s all that about?” Teddy asked, frowning. “Is she in trouble?”

He looked up, face full of curiosity and, more than that, trust. Trust that Harry was about to break. Nothing prepared him for how lost he felt

“Not at all. I need to talk with you about something.”

Teddy’s face sobered far too quickly. His hair faded to a dark brown. “Okay.”

Harry briefly compared this boy to the one from all the photographs. Yes, he was taller than the more recent ones. “Is there someplace we can go?”

Teddy frowned harder. “What?”

Right. He should know his way around. “Here.” He pushed open the nearest door. A classroom, looked like. Disused and dusty. One narrow, glass-less window let in a whistling, groaning sound as wind blew past. Somehow it wasn’t cold.

Teddy’s bemusement was evident. He hopped onto the empty professors desk, legs swinging nervously. “What’s up?”

Harry tried to look calm and confident, two emotions in very short supply this week. He cast a silent _muffliato_ before leaning back, arm to arm with Teddy. 

“Harry?”

Its was suddenly very hard to swallow. This would have been a lot easier before he’d read that letter. “How much do you know about my work?”

Teddy’s eyebrows shot up. “Huh?”

Wrong approach. Talking down to him wouldn’t work. “You…know that mission I was on last week?”

Teddy shook his head. “You didn’t mention anything big. Was it a Death Eater? You caught one?”

 _Anything big._ So Harry told him things. Maybe…maybe he wouldn’t be too shocked by this. Relatively speaking.

“No. One caught me.”

Teddy’s gasp was loud in the quiet room. “ _What?”_

 _Just rip it off,_ he told himself. _Like a plaster._ “He did something to me. We don’t really know what. But…”

“Were you hurt? You looked fine in the paper.”

“The paper,” Harry breathed, almost laughing. Teddy smiled like he understood. Like it was a shared joke. Which he supposed it was. “What I’m about to tell you, Teddy, has to be a secret. You can’t tell anyone. Not even Reena.”

“I won’t,” Teddy groaned, exasperated. He knocked his knee against Harry’s. “What is it?”

He was starting to sound excited, which was bad. Harry took a steadying breath. “I woke up in St. Mungo’s on Tuesday – “

“ _What?”_

“ – and I didn’t remember anything.”

Teddy paused, and then crossed his arms and ankles. Mirroring Harry exactly. “What d’you mean?”

“Whatever happened…all my memories – wiped.” He made a slashing motion with his hand, the emphasis making Teddy’s eyes widen.

The wind was the only sound for a few moments. Teddy stared at him, mouth set like maybe Harry was making an elaborate joke. When it was clear he wasn’t, the look faded into confusion, and then shock.

“That’s why your letter was so weird,” he whispered.

“Was it? I did make an effort.” He smiled wryly, nails digging into his palms. “What are you thinking?”

“You – “ Teddy leaned closer, and then away. “You don’t remember _anything?”_

Harry shook his head, taking in the subtle hardening to Teddy’s expression. His hair might've gone a shade darker, edging toward black.

“You don’t remember _me?”_

There it was. The slightest break in his voice that matched a sharp pain in Harry’s chest. “I didn’t,” he admitted in a hushed tone. Teddy looked away, shoulders tense. “I have gotten to know you…a bit. Through your letters. And Ron and Hermione told me so much…”

“It’s magic?” Teddy asked. “That did this to you?”

“Well – yes?”

“Then Aunt Hermione will know what to do.”

Harry breathed a laugh at his determination. “I’m…finding it hard to doubt that. But if she _can’t_ , then I really want us to be friends.”

“Friends?” Brown eyes met his after a long moment. Worried. “You’re still my dad, aren’t you?”

“W-what?”

“Where will I go for the holidays?” He asked more insistently. “They won’t take me away from you – ?”

“No!” He said, alarmed at the naked panic in Teddy’s voice. “ _No._ No one is taking you away from me.”

He hadn’t even considered that. Minerva hadn't said anything of the sort, and if there was a child services division of the Ministry, he doubted they knew of his condition. Teddy, at least, looked relieved. He wound his fingers together in his lap and stared down for a long while. Silently.

Should he try to…hug him? No. That didn’t feel right. Neither did words. No specific instinct presented itself, so he waited.

“Thanks for the sickles, and everything else,” Teddy murmured after a while. He leaned forward, discreetly wiping his eyes as he dug through his pocket. “Gerard Karasu got me a bunch of stuff from town. This is the last of it.”

He handed Harry a pumpkin pasty.

“You always said the ones from Honeydukes were the best.”

Harry stared down at the odd peace offering, then dug through his own pockets. These were the same robes from Tuesday, weren’t they?

“Here,” he said, finding the squashed Jack-O-Lantern pasty and handing it over. Teddy smiled, and it was wonderful.

“Guess you should head to the library, now,” he said morosely, after they’d both eaten in silence.

Harry Vanished the wrappers, standing and pulling Teddy to his feet. “Library sounds boring.”

“ _Boring?”_ Teddy blinked in an astonished sort of way. “Don’t they need your help?”

“Probably.” Definitely not. “Y’know, everyone keeps telling me how great this place is? I’m not so impressed.”

Teddy’s eyes went comically wide. “ _What?_ You love Hogwarts!”

“So I hear.”

“How can you say that? You – “ His mouth fell open. “You’re _skiving off?”_

“I reckon Ron rather fancies being in charge.” And there was nothing in the world he'd rather do than spend time with Teddy right now. Especially poring over dusty parchment. He gestured to the door. “Maybe you and Reena could give me a tour?”

“You said she couldn’t know,” Teddy said, clearly excited at the prospect.

“We’ll just pretend you’re showing me your favorite bits. How’s that sound?”

Teddy’s hair turned bright pink. “Sounds _brilliant!_ Come on, we’ll go find her!”

______________________

They went up three separate staircases that either made quick turns while they were on – leaving them to grasp at the rails _for their lives_ – or had trick steps that vanished underfoot. Teddy did his best to tell him about these things just before they happened, but it was rarely quick enough.

“That’s Sir Nicholas,” he whispered. Harry looked around.

“Sir – ?”

“Mr. Potter! What are you doing on this side of the castle?” Harry looked up at the ghost floating near the top of the hall, peering down at them over a ruffled collar. “Is there not important Ministry business to attend to?”

This apparently was the excuse many nearby students needed to stop and stare at Harry. “Hullo, Sir Nicholas. Who says I’m not on Ministry business?”

The ghost blinked, and then floated back up, straightening his waistcoat importantly. “Of course. Carry on, good sirs!”

Teddy saluted him, suppressing laughter.

They were very high up – glances through the keyhole windows showed more sprawling castle and what may have been a proper Quidditch pitch (he’d seen pictures in his books). The portraits here seemed too bored to stare, except for one. A huge Rococo of a very fat woman, spilling out of a pale pink dress and fanning herself.

“Password?” She asked imperiously.

“ _Majoribanks,_ ” Teddy whispered to her. She glanced from him to Harry, fanning herself a bit faster and leering.

“Whatever you say, Messrs. Potter.”

And her frame swung forward, revealing a circular entrance to a very cozy room. A fire went, and large squashy chairs dotted the carpet near the warmth. Reena was sat in one, her nose stuck in a book.

“Hey,” Teddy said. She looked up and grinned. But a few other kids looked up, too. Harry was promptly surrounded and bombarded with questions.

“Could I have your autograph, sir?”

“My mum thinks you have a secret girlfriend at the Ministry – “

“Is it true you killed the Dark Lord with the Jelly Legs jinx?”

“Martin!” Teddy snapped, groaning. “Not now!”

Martin was dragged away by a friend.

“It’s fine,” Harry said, charmed in spite of himself. At least no one was taking his picture. “I think I have time for one autograph.”

“Merlin,” the kid breathed, scrambling over the back of a chair to run up a staircase. “I’ll get my broom!”

Teddy was giving him the sort of look Hermione often did – that he was acting completely out of character but it was sort of all right. Reena left her book behind and walked over.

“We’re walking to the Lake,” Teddy informed her. “D’you know where Réne is?”

She shrugged. “Probably hanging round the library.”

“Oh, well. His loss.”

________________________________

It was a long tour. Harry didn’t actually need to do that much talking – Reena and Teddy traded stories with gusto. Classes, a poltergeist named Peeves that regularly disrupted them (?), and general mayhem that surrounded a castle-full of magical teenagers. The two of them shared a dislike of Zabini, but got on fairly well with other Slytherins. There was a note of pride in Teddy’s voice as he said that.

The Great Lake, as they called it, was probably gorgeous in the summers. On a day like this, it reflected the gray sky and some mist hung around the far off shores. That area offered the best view of the castle. Something massive shifted out in the center – a movement in the corner of his eye that left ripples curling outward. He found himself gripping Teddy’s arm in alarm.

“It’s the squid,” he whispered, leaning up on his toes. “He’s friendly, I think.”

“You _think?”_

“Doesn’t look like Hagrid’s home,” Reena sighed, pointing to the little hut near the trees. They walked to the pitch instead. Teddy told him the figures darting around were the Hufflepuff team practicing, and spent a while lamenting on the first-year Quidditch ban.

Up in the Owlery – an isolated tower that smelled exactly as he expected – Todrick flew down and perched on Teddy’s shoulder, nibbling affectionately at his ear until he fed him a treat.

Reena was shy at first, but Teddy’s bubbly personality brought out laughter and even giggles bordering on hysterical. Harry learned that she was a half-blood, from the wizarding village of Barnton, and that she was the first Gryffindor in her family. Her and Teddy showed off their newfound mastery of _Wingardium Leviosa._ The irony wasn't lost on Harry that he'd had to prove the same thing to Hermione earlier that week.

All too soon, it seemed, Ron found them back in the Common Room. Teddy was showing off the wizarding chess set Harry had gifted him earlier that year. The animated pieces killed each other with brute force, reforming themselves once the game was over.

“I think the blood is a bit much,” he commented, holding a rook by the foot. Syrupy ‘blood’ dripped down to the foot but never actually fell away from the body, no matter how hard he shook it.

“Uncle George’s sets have innards. If you take a piece with your queen, she rips its heart out!”

“With a snappy title, no doubt,” Harry muttered, looking up as Ron stepped through the portrait hole. “Hey!”

“Uncle Ron!” Teddy scrambled to his feet to throw his arms around Ron’s middle.

“Hey, Ted.” He patted him on the shoulder, eyes falling on Harry in question. “Blimey, you get shorter?”

“ _No,_ ” Teddy huffed, glancing over his shoulder. “Are you leaving, now?”

“Nearly lunch, innit?” Ron checked the big grandfather clock at the top of the landing. “We could go see the House Elves?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Teddy hissed, bouncing on his toes. “Can we?”

He was looking to Harry, now. Of course he nodded. His stomach was quite empty, and Ron was always going on about how good the food was here.

“Lead the way,” he said, gently reminding the two of them that he had no idea where they were headed. Ron grinned and headed for the portrait.

Ron didn’t notice Reena tagging along until they were descending one of the staircases. “Oi, who’s this?”

“Reena,” Teddy said distractedly. “She’s brilliant.”

Ron raised his eyebrows at Harry, lagging behind the two kids as they walked down another large, thankfully stationary staircase. “Kind of ran into a problem. McGonagall has some of the old books – the ones with information about Horcruxes. But only a few. She’s not positive where the rest ended up, but we figure some of the things we’re looking for would be with them.”

“You think it’s the same kind of magic Draco was talking about?”

“Could be. I feel like McGonagall knows more than she’s letting on.”

Harry watched Teddy dance backwards down the stairs, clearly for the sole benefit of making Reena laugh and scold him. “Why wouldn’t she help?”

“Dunno,” he said darkly. “Anyway, we can’t leave with the books, so we’ll probably be back.”

“Has Draco been here, you think? To look at the same books?”

Ron’s expression went predictably taut. “He’s not in the logs. Besides, I doubt anyone but Zabini would want him here.”

“Why him?”

“They’re mates. At least, they were all through school. Zabini endorsed his job at the Ministry, so parents were furious when he got his position here, but McGonagall doesn’t much care about that sort of thing.”

Harry could definitely believe that. They descended into a grand sort of entrance hall with ceilings maybe three times the height of Gringotts. A few ghosts were gathered in a high corner. One of them, a young women in lavish, translucent fabrics, waved morosely in his direction. He raised his hand in return.

“How’d he take it?” Ron asked lowly as they crossed the large space.

Harry shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“He seems alright.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “It feels too easy.”

But Teddy’s hair was purple again and he made a sound of joy at the boy hurrying across the room to meet them. He had a blue and gray striped scarf around his neck, clearly just in from outdoors. Short blonde curls bounced around chubby cheeks and blue eyes.

“Harry, this is Réne,” Teddy announced, dragging him over. “Ren, this is Harry and my Uncle Ron.”

“’Ello,” he said faintly. Ron groaned.

“Another one, eh? Well, hurry up. I don’t want McGonagall catching us. You’re not supposed to know about this.”

He shuffled them off into a side corridor, away from curious stares.

“But you’re Aurors!” Réne protested.

“Aurors who don’t fancy detention,” Ron snapped, winking at Harry.

________________________

The food was incredible. The House Elves – who looked nothing like Kreacher – were dreadfully nice, serving them plate after plate of whatever they wanted. Teddy practically buzzed with excitement at their little adventure. Ron ate more than Harry would have thought possible.

When they’d all had their fill, Réne and Reena broke away and let the three of them start their long walk back across the castle.

“I doubt hospitality will hold out much longer,” Ron said regretfully. “About a hundred students are hanging about the Restricted Section, and I think break-in attempts’ll reach a record high once we’re gone. It’s lucky we were even allowed inside on Ministry business.”

“Remind me to actually go up there next time.”

“It’s a pain in the arse. Pick up the wrong book and have your eyebrows singed off. Gallahey almost got us kicked out for throwing one against the wall. It called her mum a cu – uh. A rude word.”

But Teddy didn’t seem to be listening. Without his friends around, he’d been quiet, walking very close to Harry’s side with his eyes on his feet.

“You okay?” Harry asked him, when they stopped at the gateway door. Teddy looked up, eyes flashing to Ron.

“S’okay, mate. I already know,” Ron said softly, nudging his shoulder.

“I’m fine.” Teddy cleared his throat. “Aunt Hermione will fix it.”

Ron nodded. Harry shifted his weight, aware that it sounded like he’d been giving him false hope. “She’s trying.”

Teddy nodded. His freckles were sharp against his pale skin. “It’s okay. You…you don’t seem all that different.”

That was surprising to hear. And mildly devastating. Ron hesitated before saying, “Of course he doesn’t.”

Harry bit back a snort. “I had a great time with you and your friends.”

“Me too,” he said brightly. “When will you be back?”

“I…” Teddy wanted him back. Did that mean Harry hadn’t completely ruined everything? “Whenever you want. You’ll still write, won’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, reproachful. Harry smiled. “Of course I will. You said you’d be here for the first Gryffindor game – we’re against Slytherin.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Great! We’ve got Pinciotti as Chaser – she’s got us the House Cup three years running.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Keep an eye out – Slytherin only wins by cheating.”

“Not anymore," Teddy insisted, turning his chin up. Harry was glad to hear he hadn't cottoned on to Ron's heavy anti-Slytherin agenda.

“Oh yeah? One time Marcus Flint – “

“Shh!” Teddy batted his arm as Minerva’s voice drifted down the hall. “You’ll lose Gryffindor ten points with talk like that!”

“Why?” Ron asked, indignant.

“Interhouse unity!” He hissed. Ron scoffed.

“There you are,” Debra snapped, limping slightly. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Trick stair?” Ron teased, looking at her feet. She made an irritated noise.

“We can’t use magic on those bloody books. Not even the ones with teeth.”

“We had to pry it off with our hands,” Dean said, rubbing his arm.

“I’m going to the _Broomsticks_.” Debra limped past them. Teddy stepped far out of her way. “See you lot there.”

“Alright, Ted?” Dean asked on his way out, patting his shoulder. Teddy grinned at him and shook hands with Seamus.

Minerva stopped, eyes on Harry as she handed him his cloak. In all his gallivanting around, he'd completely forgotten about it. “Have you all you need from my school today, gentlemen?”

“I think so,” Ron hedged, scratching his jaw. She glanced over to him with a raised eyebrow. “We’ll know more after Monday. I’ll owl.”

“See that you do. We’ll need to be far more discreet for your next visit.” As if to make her point, a group of students peeked around the end of the hall, chattering excitedly. Harry definitely heard his name. “Mr. Lupin.”

Teddy tightened his grip on Harry’s sleeve. “Yes, Headmistress?”

“Would you take lunch in my office?”

“Y-Yes, ma’am,” he said, even though they’d just eaten. He turned and, after a moment's thought, threw his arms around his middle.

“Love you,” Teddy said against his robes. 

“I love you, too,” he promised, beyond pleased Teddy could still say that to him. The hug ended, and something in his chest broke a little. Ron and Hermione insinuated that Teddy going to school had been hard on him, and it was easy to imagine this was how he felt watching him get on that train. Fear and apprehension and guilt.

For a flash second, he thought he saw the same in Teddy’s eyes, but it was already gone, replaced by a toothy smile.

“Potter,” Minerva said, hand tight on his shoulder. He blinked away the sudden burning in his eyes. “Let me know if you need anything at all.”

“I will." What else had Ginny said? _S_ _he won’t let anything happen to him_. He had to believe that right now.

“And _you,_ Weasley.” She fixed Ron with an uncompromising frown. “You will find Dolohov and put an end to this.”

“I plan to,” he said, quite seriously. Minerva nodded and held out her arm. Teddy took it, raising his eyebrows suggestively at Harry. He grinned back, imagining the prestige that came with this sort of invitation. His friends would be impressed.

“In the meantime…” She patted Teddy’s hand and looked between Harry and Ron. “Draco Malfoy is no fool. Treating him as such would be unwise.”

Teddy looked curious again, but kept quiet. He waved once more as they swept off together and that was that.

He was gone.

“How – how did he seem to you?” Harry asked, turning. Ron’s eyebrows were pulled low as he wrestled with Minerva’s parting statement.

“I wouldn’t worry too much.” He fisted his hands, then shoved the door open. “C’mon.”

Harry tugged on his cloak. “You’re telling me not to _worry?”_

“He really seemed okay, Harry. I’m sure McGonagall’s going to talk to him about it.”

He didn't notice Harry's dark look. The gate creaked shut behind them. Harry swore he saw one of the gargoyles swiftly twist a key in the lock.

“What’d you think about McGonagall?”

“She’s rather nice. Without being nice, that is.”

Ron laughed, easily slipping into a story about their first day in Transfiguration. It was laden with warmth and familiarity, like he’d told it a thousand times. Maybe to Teddy. They’d been late – a concept he now found horrifying, after meeting her.

“She’s an Animagus?”

“Yeah. Cat.”

“Hm.” The trees swayed good-naturedly above them. Wind brought the faintest smell of candy and perhaps beer. “Why did Hermione ask me if I was one?”

Ron looked perplexed, and then he laughed. “Merlin, she’s insistent. Nah, it’s just George. He convinced her the two of you were trying it. Illegally, of course. She checked your mouth for mandrake leaf about a thousand times that month.”

“Sounds about right.” Harry smiled to himself. George was clever for that one – it was a lie reckless enough for Hermione to believe and probably agonize over.

He wondered if he found it funny, before.

_____________________

“He said I didn’t seem that much different.”

Hermione cast him a perplexed look over her shoulder, spoon clinking as she stirred risotto over her stove. “What?”

“Teddy,” he repeated. “He said I wasn’t that different.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

Harry stared at a photo of Ron and Bill with Victoire sitting near the window. It had been the most draining day yet. First Hogwarts, which made him feel better and worse, then a blundering meeting with Neville. Nice enough guy, but he wasn’t in on the secret. Harry had tried his best to be surly, and sure enough Neville hadn’t caught on to anything amiss.

Which proved Harry’s point. The disquiet he'd been wrestling with all week (had it really been less than a week?) was getting harder to ignore.

“Everyone else seems to think the opposite. You certainly do – it’s like I never smiled, before. Or laughed, or treated any of my co-workers with any sort of respect – “

“Don’t be dramatic, Harry. Of course you did – “

“ – so that means I was a _completely_ different person around him – “

Quite harshly, she hushed him, setting the oven to simmer as they waited on Ron to return from the Ministry. “It’s alright. You were. Every parent acts a bit different around their children.”

He watched her putter about for a few minutes, clearly set on doing anything except sitting across from him. The avoidance was extremely obvious, and he told her so. With an embarrassed smile, she took a spot across from him. The late afternoon light made her brown eyes gleam amber.

“It doesn’t quite feel like that,” he continued. She picked up the _Prophet_ and held it ridiculously high in front of her face. "Oh, come off it. I can still see you."

“You said he took it well,” she pointed out, turning a page. 

“It feels like a double life," he pressed, ignoring her attempts to quell him. "Like I was two separate people.”

Finally, she stopped pretending to read. The paper crumpled just slightly under her fingers.

"Which one would you say was more real?” It felt a bit dirty, pressing his advantage like this. He wouldn't feel the need if she hadn't been running away from him all week.

"If you had to guess," he added blithely, pushing his untouched tea over as an afterthought.

The liquid sloshed a bit from the movement. Slowly, she lowered the paper, expression blank as she folded it neatly back together.

The cat’s footsteps pelted across the carpet in a burst of feline energy, but it didn’t come into the kitchen. A little radio by the sink played muggle jazz. He didn’t think he was scaring her, exactly, but there was a starkness in her eyes he hadn’t seen before. The clear lack of a response cemented it for him.

“I really, really wish I could answer that," she whispered, at length. No threat of tears, but a very tired softness. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” None of this was _her_ fault. It was all Harry - then Harry _and_ now Harry. 

She brushed her cheek with the back of her hand, staring out the window with one knuckle pressed to her lips. "If I could just figure this out...if it wasn't taking so long, then you wouldn't have had to - "

"Hermione," he said. She met his gaze reluctantly. "I'm not holding my breath." Her mouth tightened into a line, so he hurried on. "What's done is done - I told Teddy, so...so now he knows."

She looked nonplussed. There was a short, jaunty saxophone solo from the sink, comically out of place. “Don’t do this, Harry. Don’t assume…”

“I don’t think I’m assuming anything. I think it’s rather obvious how messed up I was – “

“I’m not arguing that.”

“Right,” he huffed. She was quiet for a spell, deep thought marring her brow.

“I have to do this.” Measured, careful. Not meeting his eyes. “For the investigation.”

Every bit the words of an Unspeakable, but he thought he could derive some meaning from it - she was agreeing with him. And that was miraculous. It said a lot about who he'd been. Before. If it wasn't important to the investigation...

If she fixed him tomorrow, would he thank himself for wasting this time? Time where he could recklessly follow his impulses without the years of baggage holding him back. Time to _live_ , because he wasn’t entirely sure what he would be going back to.

Hermione shifted like she was about to say something else, but then Ron stepped through the fireplace, coughing violently from inhaled soot. They both sat back like they’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Hey,” Ron hacked, kicking his shoes off. “Luna just owled me.”

Hermione cleared her throat, rising with a natural-seeming smile. “About what?”

“That smells great.” He sat heavily next to Harry. “Oh, the usual madness. I think she’s mad we didn’t wait for her shift at Neville’s.”

“Do you not see her often?” Harry asked lightly.

Ron took the cold tea and threw back a sip. “About as often as I can stand.”

“Don’t be rude,” Hermione admonished.

“Alright, fine. More often than I can stand.” He shook his head at Harry. “She’s bonkers. You saw that photo album.” Harry nodded sympathetically. “Anyway, her letters never made sense. She told me to tell you not to worry, ‘Mione.”

Harry looked over, where Hermione’s back had gone very straight as she made them both a plate. “About what?”

“Search me.”

“Well,” she sniffed, disdain coloring her tone. “She’s always saying that sort of thing to me. Though usually she’s read my palm first.”

Clearly, Hermione didn’t put much stock in that sort of thing. They talked about Hogwarts while they ate, and she was much quieter than normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing paternal instincts/feelings is, like, really hard. Thanks for reading!


	4. Marcomanni, quos nos Nordmannos vocamus

“Morning,” Harry said glumly, watching Hermione stow her wand. The Department of Mysteries corridor was bleak as always. He took stock of his body, testing his left shoulder. Still sore. He’d made use of the Auror work-out facilities (Level 2 ¾ ) very early that morning. Debra gave him a very thorough ribbing when he could only do fifteen press-ups in a row – clearly, his past record was much higher. Ron explained the shoulder was an old injury, and Harry must have just forgotten to adjust for it. He’d been starving when he got down here to meet Hermione. “Hm. Earl Gray?” He wondered aloud, moving his tongue around the inside of his mouth.

“Yes,” Hermione smiled, already steering him toward the lift. “And biscuits. You’re welcome.”

“Anything – ?”

“No,” she said, heels snapping on the hard floor. Was that a _no_ they hadn’t found anything, or a _no_ she couldn’t talk about it? “Isn’t Mal – Draco coming in today?”

“It's Monday. He’s supposed to be.” Harry tried to sound nonchalant. Hermione raised her eyebrows.

“You look very nice today,” she said, apropos of nothing. He instinctively looked down at his plain black robes and dress shoes.

“Thanks,” he said uncertainly, brushing a loose curl behind his ear. Hermione beamed and turned back for work. Harry stepped into the lift and closed his eyes for a moment, rummaging around in his own head in case anything had changed. Didn’t seem that way, but then it never did. What kind of biscuits? He poked his tongue around his teeth. Raisin? And shortbread, perhaps.

The lift stopped early at Level Three. Harry sighed and prepared to greet someone who undoubtedly knew him. With a faint _whirring_ , the doors opened and he was face to face with Draco Malfoy.

It was quite startling. In robes of black with silver lining – clearly much more expensive than Harry’s – Draco could have been a Hogwarts ghost, such was the pallor to his skin. There was a faint, irritated sort of flush to his cheeks, but even that leached away as he saw who was in the lift.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Behind Draco, a reception area much like the level above buzzed with people. He’d never seen such a crowd up on Two. The golden script above the lift doors told him this was the Department for Magical Accidents, Catastrophes, and Renovation.

“How hard is it to find _one_ kneazle?” Someone yelled, striding out of one office to bang on a door. “Flanks! I’m not answering for this! You were meant to have them tranquilized be _fore_ transfer!”

Harry still, he realized, had not moved. He did so, clearing his throat in embarrassment. Draco blinked and stepped aboard, fabric swaying all around. The doors slid shut.

“Erm, going up?” Harry asked into the tense silence.

“Obviously,” Draco drawled. He stared straight ahead, knuckles white around a bound sheaf of papers. Harry pressed for Two again to set the lift in motion. It was too short a ride for him to think of something to say. Draco didn’t exactly run off down the hall, but walked just fast enough to be two steps ahead of Harry.

“Have you found an apartment?”

Draco stopped dead. It happened so fast Harry nearly ran into his back. Two people standing over near _Wizengamot Administrative Services_ had been staring at Draco, and now gaped at Harry like he’d done the equivalent of swing a punch.

“What,” Draco hissed under his breath, “are you _doing?”_

The brusqueness wasn’t entirely unexpected, after their last encounter, but Harry thought question fairly innocent. “I just asked if you – “

“Need back up, Harry?” A goateed man with a Chudley Cannons tie called out. Horrifically, it looked like he meant it. One of the onlookers had poked their head into the office, drawing more witnesses.

Draco looked at them, turned on his heel and stalked off.

“No, thanks,” Harry called back to the man, following after the swish of black fabric. Alright, he allowed with chagrin, perhaps Ron wasn’t as biased against Draco as he thought – at least, it seemed he was far from the only one.

The walls and desktops in the Auror office had been Concealed again in anticipation. Draco turned his back firmly to the door, Duplicating the packet of paper until there was one for everyone.

Harry shut the door softly behind him, perplexed. “You didn’t answer my – “

Draco looked up, making a furious motion with his hand that clearly meant _shut up_. Harry frowned at him as Élise leaned out of her cubicle.

“Harry, is that – ? Oh! Mr. Malfoy.” She stood and brushed her robes straight. Her voice alerted everyone else to Draco’s presence, and Ron’s orange hair stuck up over his cubicle wall as he jumped to his feet.

“’Bout time,” he grumbled, sitting at the center table gracelessly and dragging a folder his way. “What’s this?”

“A very brief summary of a decade’s research.” Draco put his back – again – to Harry as he sat, like nothing had happened. Harry stepped around to an empty chair, opening the sheaf nearest to him.

Dean and Seamus sat on either side of him. Debra stayed at her desk – Harry heard her quill scratching. Draco sat imperiously straight as they pored over the documents. To avoid being glared at, Harry opened the front cover. The penmanship was spiky and severe: _Nectere de Anima._

Harry knew, inexplicably, what that meant. Binding of the soul. An involuntary shiver went down his back and he flipped past that first page – what looked like a block of history text – and found himself looking at a list. A recipe? The potion had no name, but the bottom half of the parchment was full of footnotes.

“Translations,” Harry said pointedly, looking up at Ron. “From Middle English.”

Ron nodded absently, already on the last page. It looked like an expense report. “This is quite a lot.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Élise began, a while later.

“Just Malfoy will suffice,” Draco corrected shortly. She blinked.

“Alright. Malfoy. This is…” she gestured to the block of spiky text. Harry glanced over so he could turn to the same page. Still what looked like history lectures. “Thorough. What do you plan to do with it?’

Draco’s hands twitched, tightening on the arms of his chair. “What do you mean?”

“After this,” she explained, glancing nervously to Ron, who was still frowning at numbers. “After you help us, and we catch Dolohov – “

“I can only do this once,” Draco said. “It’s Dolohov or Macnair – your choice, really.”

“Why just the once?” Ron asked, already suspicious.

“How are you reading so fast?” Dean muttered in an undertone to Élise, still on the second page. Draco sighed sharply and crossed one leg over the other.

“If you would read the opening prospectus – “

“I’ll read it later,” Ron said, less irritable than Harry would have expected. “At first glance, it looks like Horcrux – “

“It’s not.” Draco spoke quickly, almost defensively. “It’s the opposite of a Horcrux. You don’t have to – “ his eyes flicked around the room once. “You don’t have to kill anything, for a start. It’s the same branch of magic, but much older.”

Dean and Seamus had clearly given up reading, turning their attention to Draco. Even Élise had looked up. Harry thought Draco should have sent the report ahead - no one was interested in slogging through it when he was right there to explain.

Draco sighed again, fixing his eyes on the middle distance. “The International Statute of Secrecy,” he began. “Ratified in 1689, three hundred years after the Persecution began. I won’t bore you with basic History of Magic tripe – you all know it was long before even the trials that magic users were being sought out by the Church. If they weren’t paid to prophesize or heal, they were imprisoned, tortured, and murdered.”

The room had gone quiet, save for Debra’s quill scratches – though even those were getting slower. Ron had an openly bored expression, but he was listening as intently as the rest of them. The posh accent was quite good for storytelling, Harry had to admit.

“Two schools of thought emerged – magic that could insure against death. We’re all achingly familiar with the second.” He dropped his gaze, jaw tightening for a brief second before he regained control. Horcruxes, Harry thought. He’d heard enough about them, certainly – someone dividing parts of their soul into inanimate – and animate – objects. What no one really spoke about was the magic behind the act, and after the fruitless research at both Hogwarts and the Archives, he knew why.

“The first was…simpler. In theory. One’s soul remains intact, but they are joined to another. Bonded.”

“Immortal?” Seamus asked. Draco shook his head.

“Not quite, at least, not that I can discern. Accounts from the time mention increased physical strength and the ability to heal quickly. There was one transcript from a witch burning in Flanders, eleventh century - the wizard appeared dead, but woke within a fortnight and escaped.”

Ron had paled noticeably. “What are you saying?”

“Do be patient,” Draco admonished, a hint of real irritation behind his words. “Every Death Eater that’s died will stay dead. The Dark Lord wasn’t so interested in binding us as he was in the control.”

He sat forward, and Harry sensed that this was the real crux of things. “The magic he used was…twisted. He made it hurt, made it so he could summon us at his beck and call, made it so we would _always_ be Marked. But it’s still Binding – _Anima Nectere._ Anyone who shares the Mark is linked.” That sank in for a few moments. Élise wound her fingers together. “I think I can reverse-engineer things, and find Dolohov.”

“What about Macnair?”

Ron’s question had something passing over Draco’s scowl. His eyes shifted up and down in time with a silent thought. “I already said I can only do this once. Not to mention the amount of time…the potion alone will need a moon for every living bonded soul – “

“ _Every_ soul?” Ron’s face creased up in concentration. “That’s at least – “

“Five. Yes, don’t hurt yourself, Weasley.”

Ron snapped his jaw shut.

“But – “ Seamus started. Draco was already speaking over him.

“It’s the soul part that matters, Finnigan. Dementor’s kiss took care of that as far as Crouch is concerned.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry,” Harry said as understanding passed around the room. “What happened?”

“Crouch Jr.” Ron’s voice was soft, his eyes downturned. “It’s a long story. The full moon is this week, isn’t it?”

Draco’s shoulders tensed. “Yes. Thursday.”

“Can you start by then?”

“No,” Harry said in answer, deducing from the way Draco flinched that he was right. “He can’t.”

Gray eyes fell on him, ice cold and distant. He stood so abruptly that Harry briefly entertained the idea he was being attacked. Ron would love that.

“You have my proposal,” Draco said loftily, ignoring the bewildered looks from the other Aurors. “Explaining further would be a waste of my time. And if you intend on maintaining this charade, I suggest you keep your wayward Head Auror on a leash. He just tried to _talk_ to me in the hall.”

Harry squinted at him, baffled.

“What are you on about?” Ron asked, sounding much the same.

Draco looked faintly surprised that Ron didn’t already know, but shook it off. “Don’t owl me again, Potter.”

There was a short, shocked silence that ended the moment Draco shut the door in his wake. Ron had a comical look on his face. “You _owled_ him?”

“On _purpose?_ ” Dean clarified. Élise chewed the end of her quill, eyes wide and thoughtful.

“Yes,” Harry admitted, taking a deep breath. “I offered up Grimmauld Place.”

“You _what?_ Why?” Ron spluttered. From behind the cubicle, Debra made a sound that could have been a laugh.

Harry hesitated, glancing around. “You all…I mean, it’s not a secret – ?“

“No,” Élise said, amused. “We know about Grimmauld Place.”

“Well, Ron took me there yesterday, and it’s…it’s _horrible_. We might as well have him working in there, if it’s all semi-temporary. I certainly don’t need it.”

He shivered just thinking about the dusty tapestries and dark rooms. They hadn’t stayed long. Ron tried to brighten the visit with happy stories of their time sequestered away from the war, but even those weren’t enough to keep out the chill.

“Come on, Weasley,” Debra stood and stretched, propping one hand on her hip. “It’s a brilliant idea, and we can save ourselves a month of waiting.”

Ron turned to stare at her. “Yeah. Fine," he relented. "It is a good idea. He didn’t seem too keen on it, though.”

“'Course he didn't,” Seamus scoffed. “Malfoy, taking a favor from Harry? What’d you expect?”

 _I owe him, for saving my life and all,_ Harry thought. And it wasn’t anything grand – the place was an antique dump.

“I’ll talk to him,” Debra said suddenly, striding to the door.

Ron guffawed. “What makes you think – ?“

“I have my ways, Ron. You don’t make it through a war without picking up a thing or two.”

__________________________

Debra’s ‘ways’, whatever Dark magic they must have been, had Draco moving in the next afternoon. The message of affirmation came addressed to the entire department.

“I’ll leave early,” Harry offered. Ron was technically doing both Harry’s work and his own to keep up the appearance that Harry was still Head Auror, and his relative niceness to Draco the day before had Harry thinking the stress was getting to him. Besides, it was nice to have something important to see to. “Me and Hermione’ll check it out before he gets there. Make sure nothing too important got left behind by the Order.”

“I can’t think of anything that wouldn’t be charmed against enemy eyes…” Ron sat back and popped a jelly bean into his mouth, staring blankly at the pile of paperwork in front of him. “Though if you ‘n ‘Mione aren’t calling him the enemy, guess I should stop, too.”

“Hermione? What did she say?”

Ron grimaced and shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Just…” his face turned pinched for a second. “Just lock up Sirius’ old room. You wouldn’t have wanted anyone in there.”

They hadn’t gone past the second floor on Harry’s first visit. Hermione would have to show him which one belonged to Sirius. “I’ll do that.”

“Sure.” He picked up his quill. “Give Malfoy my regards.”

Harry laughed at that, which made some of the gloominess fade from Ron’s expression.

He and Hermione Apparated to Grimmauld Place after he Flooed home to change into jeans and trainers. Number Twelve managed to look even more menacing than it had on Sunday.

“I’ll show you how to rework the wards,” she said, pulling him along the asphalt with her big blue umbrella at her side, ready for whenever the inevitable rain decided on falling. Harry had noticed on Sunday with a great sense of irony that the front door had no handle.

The ornate iron knocker – some winged, fanged beast – glinted at them. Hermione tapped her wand to its nose and the chipped black door swung inward. “After the Fidelus fell apart, we had to get a fair bit of Ministry sign-off to put up new protections. Just your signature, really, and _voila._ ”

The sweep of magic was nearly as strong as Hogwarts. Flames flickered to life all down the long hall, throwing weird shapes onto peeling once-blue patterned wallpaper. Ron had warned him against making loud noises in the entry.

Harry had yet to see the mysterious, muggle-hating portrait of Sirius’ mother, but he wasn’t at all curious. The heavy black curtains could stay eternally drawn over the frame, for all he was concerned.

“Drawing room’s the best place. It’s the heart of the house,” Hermione murmured, setting her umbrella by the door. They tiptoed up the creaking steps to the first landing and into the drawing room, where two graying sofas faced each other in audience to a once-grand piano on one end and a large, unused fireplace on the other.

Harry was sure Ron had pulled the curtains open during their visit, but they were shut now, fluttering ominously without a breeze.

“I don’t pity Draco,” Hermione said cheerfully, pulling her coat tighter and brandishing her wand. “Wouldn’t stay here again for all the gold in Gringotts.”

“I almost feel bad for offering,” Harry said. This place was even worse than he remembered – and it had only been two days.

“It won’t be so bad. For him,” she reasoned, walking a small circle between the couches and waving specific patterns in the air. “The house likes purebloods. Walburga always called Ron’s family ‘blood traitors’, but they were still fairly comfortable. I wonder what she’ll think of Draco. Here.”

Harry stepped into her circle and let her grasp one of his hands. When he raised his wand and copied her incantations, the wards shimmered into view. It was like opening a second set of eyes; swirling layers of blue and green auras over the walls and floors.

“I can tell you made these,” he said, in wonder at the complexity. More than that, though, he sensed the same faint buzz he had when he held her wand. Hermione nodded, waiting for something.

In a wordless jilt, Harry lifted the tip of his wand, peeling the layers apart and sussing out the differences. “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”

“Yes.” Her voice managed to sound approving and reproachful all at once.

Below the green of anti-Apparition magic was something equally complex but less familiar. Higher energy – mauve and lilac. Anti-intruder, certainly. “What does that do?”

She chewed a full bottom lip. “If the shields didn’t recognize you, your head, arms, and legs would fall clean off when you stepped through the door. Like a mannequin.”

The image was horrifying and perversely amusing all at once. “George.”

“Naturally.” She rolled her eyes. “He can be quite sadistic when the situation calls for it. Now, repeat after me.”

They went through all the spellwork required to keep Draco from a very undignified fate – _liminis amicus_ was the final incantation, followed by Draco’s name. The colors in the room intensified, a very thin shudder went through what felt like the entire house, and then it all faded from view. The parlor was just a parlor again.

Hermione’s sudden frown made him wonder if that was supposed to happen. “Not normal?” He asked, bracing for his limbs to start breaking off. “Did I mess it up?”

After a short hesitation, she shook her head. “I think it’s excited.”

“The _house?”_

She turned to the fireplace, pulling her hair back and setting her shoulders. “I was thinking of connecting this to the Floo.”

“Why?”

“Hm…” He may as well have spoken to the sofa. “Not the Network. Fidelus gets in the way of that.” She tapped her wand thoughtfully to her chin. “This might take a minute.”

He didn’t bother asking for an explanation. “Do you know where Sirius’ room is?”

Hermione swiveled, sharp and startled. Another one of those seemingly inane questions that had more weight than he was aware of. “Fourth floor,” she said, biting her lip again. "You’ll know it.”

Every torch was lit when they entered, but above the second landing the flames were blue instead of yellow. The same amount of light, it just didn’t manage to penetrate the thick air. Stairs stopped creaking as well, adding to the oppressive quiet. Various discolored spots of wall marked the places where abusive, blood-purist (and plain racist, he heard) portraits had been forcibly removed. He moved slowly, trying to picture this place as anything but empty.

George and Fred crouched by the banister, hanging Extendable Ears over the sides. He knew exactly where the photo had been taken – he could almost see how brightly their orange shaggy heads stood stark against the cool tones of Grimmauld Place, undeterred from their troublemaking even in a place like this. He imagined Hermione and Ron’s laughter ringing, pots and pans banging as Mrs. Weasley made massive dinners. Ginny having a row with someone. Everyone standing bright against the gloom of both the house and the war, bolstered by warm fires and maroon sweaters.

At the fourth level, his hand lighted upon thick dust on the banister. Only two torches flickered dimly, the air undisturbed by any breathing thing for much longer than the rest of the house.

The two doors were equal in every way except for a tattered, tarnished copper sign on the left one: _Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black._ A name Harry hadn’t heard yet. Maybe Sirius’ brother? There was a family tapestry in the drawing room he had yet to look at.

The unmarked door opened soundlessly, to a room so cluttered and personal it could have only been vacated minutes ago. The bed and walls were adorned in what he now knew were Gryffindor colors – red and gold that gleamed in the low torchlight from the landing. Like Teddy’s room, there were scattered news clippings and periodical pages stuck to the walls. Unlike Teddy – thankfully – those clippings were mainly arranged in teenage ode to the female form.

A flash of movement drew his eye to a tall bookshelf. Shoved between several large volumes on Switching and Conjuring and a copper wolf-shaped bookend was an unframed, but upright, photo that he recognized instantly. It wasn’t exactly the one on his work desk, but was taken on the same day. The man and woman – his parents – were still in their wedding garb, only here they were joined by a tall and scruffy haired man who double-fisted two champagne flutes. In his plain suit, he shouldn’t have looked nearly as elegant as he managed.

Sirius was in a few of the Grimmauld Place album photos. Usually reluctant, unsmiling…and, now that he thought about it, exactly like Harry usually appeared. Except Sirius had the decency to smile at his friends’ wedding.

He sighed, carefully examining at the shattered piece of glass that worked as a stopper to keep the photo upright. It only reflected his own eye, so he put it back. The spell he cast on the door was simple enough that whoever tried to get in would at least know they weren’t wanted. He didn’t see a reason to take it any further than that.

He was halfway down the steps when there was another, barely-there shiver in the walls. It was _creepy,_ and despite the lack of portraits he thought he felt eyes on his back.

“Hermione?”

“It’s fine,” she called, leaning over the hearth and into the firepit. There was a burst of green light that made her hair frizz. “It should work now.”

“Why – “

“I’ve connected it to your house. I hope that’s okay.” Her hair tufted around her ears as she sat up, one streak of soot across her nose.

His house. Well…all this _had_ been his idea. “Fine, I suppose. Why – “’

“Emergency. You never know when you’ll need a quick exit.”

“…Right.” He helped her to her feet. “I hope that won't be necessary.”

“And I’m sure you know not to mention to anyone that Draco is staying here.”

“Of course,” he said, defensive. If Ron wasn’t constantly going on about it, the altercation in the hallway at the Ministry would be enough. “Don’t fancy a mob at the door.”

It was meant as a joke, but she only nodded tersely, catching his hand as he turned away. “Wait.”

“Yes?”

A slurry of emotions flashed through her eyes. Hermione was sort of like a hummingbird; any time he felt like they had settled in the same place she was already gone, moving ahead where he could never catch up. Ron was so different – steady and slow to change. But there were two clear things they had in common; their steadfast loyalty to Harry, and…

And this. She was standing so close to him, hand turning to clasp the underside of his upper arm. It was a delicate, intimate kind of touch. Just the other day, after dinner, she’d fallen asleep heavy against his side while he and Ron played video games.

Ron did it too – the touching of the hair, the straightening of the clothes. Harry had been caught, just the day previous, in the hall with a coworker in the Department – Shagworth, Head of Something-or-other. Ron had saved him from the awkward conversation with a muttered explanation about how the guy was usually an overbearing arse. He’d squeezed Harry’s hand in apology, but it just seemed much too familiar for two grown men, no matter how close.

_Mr. Weasley has always made your well-being a priority._

Harry looked up from her hand on his arm, realizing Hermione had just asked him a question. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

Before she could answer, both sets of curtains flung themselves open with a metal screech. Harry jumped a foot in the air, but Hermione just walked over, peering out at the street.

“He’s here.”

Harry went to look. The rain had started up, driving everyone off the streets – not that this one had many crowds – save one dark figure standing at the grassy patch where Harry and Hermione had Apparated.

“Why doesn’t he come in?” Harry asked, watching Draco turn to look both ways, like he was waiting.

“Fidelus,” Hermione whispered, shifting so close her breath fogged the glass. “Interesting – Yaxley never shared the Secret with him.” After a short pause, she looked up at him. “You’ll have to go wave him in. He can’t see the building.”

“Erm. Alright – “

“One step off the porch will do.”

He crept downstairs, pulling his jacket hood up over his loose hair. The humidity made it curl over his cheeks in fluffy, obnoxious tangles. Rain pattered down on the front stoop, where he paused, watching. Draco was wearing a cloak with the hood down, an Umbrella Charm deflecting the worst of the rain. It was a little hard to believe he couldn’t see Harry standing just across the pavement.

Yet as he stepped forward off the ledge, Draco tensed, drawing his briefcase closer to his body in surprise. There was a moment where they just stared at each other, then Draco looked up at the house, his features blurred by the rain. When he walked across the street, it was with long, irritated strides.

“Don’t make any sound in the front hall,” Harry warned.

Draco stopped just inside, looking around with a reserved expression. Silent. Unwilling to wake the portrait, Harry waved him up the stairs, and felt him stop at the door to the drawing room. Hermione stood in front of the sofas – stiff-shouldered and jaw jutted out. Such an expression should have looked silly on someone of her size, but Hermione had the potential to be very scary, he’d learned.

“Granger,” Draco said flatly, raindrops shining on his shoulders. At odds with his tone, there was a wary set to his jaw.

“Malfoy,” she replied, just as emotionless. Not Draco, any longer, but Malfoy.

She closed the distance, holding out one hand. Draco lifted a pale hand to shake hers once, businesslike. His mouth went a bit tight – disapproval at the smudge on her nose, perhaps. “I read over your dossier,” she noted. “It’s an ambitious project.”

“Yes.” His eyes flickered around, taking in the state of the room..

“Page _xvi_ was rather interesting,” she continued, with a note of challenge. “You cited Nider’s _Formicarius_ as a direct source, when not even Durmstrang has a copy.”

Draco shrugged off her directness, strolling a few steps and setting his briefcase on a writing chair. “There’s a copy in the Manor library. Only known print still in one piece.”

Harry crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. He’d never seen Hermione so completely stunned before.

“But – but that should be in a museum! Or at least accessible to Magical History N.E.W.T. students!” Now things sounded more personal – he wondered just how hard she’d looked for it while at Hogwarts.

“Oh, it is,” Draco pulled his hands behind his back, taking slow steps as he browsed the dusty bookshelves set into the wall. The look he shot over his shoulder was overly-innocent. “To Durmstrang students.”

“But – “

“Karkaroff came by quite frequently to make use of the…older texts,” he said meaningfully. Hermione looked a little less outraged, but whatever the context was went right over Harry’s head. “He brought a student, once or twice, when I was young. Their curriculum is much stronger on history than Hogwarts', though. Especially the Persecution.”

“Yes, well I know plenty about persecution,” she snapped. Draco went still. “How were artifacts like that not seized in the raids?”

Draco turned around, cheekbones sharp in relief from the window light. “Preservation magic. Keeps them intact – “

“And keeps them on the Malfoy estate,” Hermione finished, realizing something with a frown. “Like Hogwarts. They’d be destroyed if they were removed.” Draco nodded, and she teetered forward on her toes, visibly drawn to the new well of information. “Why keep it off the registry?”

“Subsection D of the _Artefacts, Authentic and Ancient_ Act.”

“I’m unfamiliar,” Hermione said, and it sounded like it cost her something. Draco’s hand smoothed over the dusty fireplace mantle.

“It’s drivel. Leftover from the first war – you should overturn it, really.”

“Well, I’m not really in legislation.” He gave her a squinty, knowing look, and her cheeks went a bit dark. “Officially.”

Harry took note of that. Hermione kept her role in the Ministry very vague – Unspeakables as a rule did not communicate with other departments, but Hermione was often in the Auror office on business Harry knew nothing about. He’d even seen her walking out of the Beast Division on Level Four. About a fourth of the reports in his home office were written by her, and her name was all over the Ministry, so to speak. She had her own section in the Archives, filled with drafts and legislation concerning Magical Creatures and International Cooperation. And now, he thought, glancing at the fireplace, she evidently held some sway with the Floo Network Authority.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?”

Harry looked up, the shock of Draco glaring at him nearly stronger than his shock at being addressed. Usually he tried to stay out of everyone’s way. “Pardon?”

He turned pale, suspicious eyes on Hermione. “So, Potter has manners. Was there brain damage to assist the memory loss?”

“I’m not _damaged_ ,” Harry said defensively. “But you know that, don’t you?”

Draco’s calm façade flickered.

“What?” Hermione asked.

Harry raised an eyebrow in silent challenge – he hadn’t yet mentioned Draco’s illegal use of _Legilimens_ on him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t change his mind. Draco didn’t look worried about it, though. A slow, thin smile spread over his face.

“Trouble in paradise,” he said, tone growing scathing as Hermione glowered. “Potter’s been keeping secrets from you.”

Harry didn’t expect it to be flipped like that, but Hermione only rolled her eyes. “We’re not here to argue, Malfoy. Have you everything you need?”

Draco nodded, looking faintly disappointed. “The ingredients I need should be coming in tomorrow, though with Weasley in charge I’m sure at least one thing will be missing. With any luck I can start brewing before moonrise Thursday.”

“Fine.” She disappointed him again by not rising to the jab at Ron. “I’ll be checking in semi-frequently. Weekly, maybe – “

“Why?”

“Well...Horcruxes are only peripherally understood. If you can harness this kind of magic, the Department of Mysteries will want to know how you did it.”

Draco took an odd, steadying breath, leaning slightly against the sofa back. “By missive? Or will you be plodding about my work station?”

“As I see fit,” she said. “I’m not trying to intrude, I’m trying to _cooperate_.”

There was a pause, and Draco looked to Harry like he expected him to say something. So he did.

“Er, is this because she’s muggleborn?” He blurted.

All guile dropped from Draco’s face like he’d been Stunned.

“I don’t…” Harry felt his face heat up, even though Hermione looked highly amused. “Ron’s rather rude, but Hermione’s only trying to help. I don’t see why you dislike her so much unless it’s something to do with – “

“I don’t _dislike_ her,” Draco hissed, wrong-footed for once. He suddenly didn’t seem able to meet her eyes. “I dislike the Ministry meddling in this project. And… and I’ve seen what goes on in your department, Granger. It’s hardly what I would call _ethical._ ”

“Well,” Harry started, something protective surging forward. “Neither are you, from what I’ve heard.”

Slowly, Draco nodded his head, turning to the wall of shelves. “No, I suppose not.”

“A lot has changed, I think we can all agree,” Hermione said to Draco’s back. Her hand found Harry’s again, and for the first time it bothered him. “Do you need anything from me or my department before you start brewing?”

Draco thought about it, then went to his briefcase. “Off the record?”

“As much as possible.”

The snaps clicked open and he peered down into the cavernous inside of the case. “A Pensieve, then. I’ll require Marcomannic, is that a problem?”

“Oh,” Hermione sounded surprised, and interested. “That’s…specific. But it can be done. I’ll need a – “

“Seed.” Draco Summoned a small glass vial, like the one he’d taken Veritaserum from. This one was full of a swirling blue almost-liquid. Memory. “Here.” He looked highly uncomfortable as he handed it over to Hermione’s waiting palm. “It’s not pleasant, Granger, I warn you.”

“They never are,” she said sagely, sliding it into her pocket.

Their goodbyes were bare bones. Draco just waved them off, opening his briefcase and leaning in up to the shoulder to dig for something. Harry held the umbrella as they strolled down the street instead of Apparating, headed for the nearest decent-looking restaurant.

“Care to translate any of that for me?”

“Which part?” Her expression had closed off, shoulders slumping in like her mind was already back at the office.

“What was it he asked for with the Penseive? Marco…something.”

“Marcomannic,” she stated. “A rune alphabet. Most Pensieves use Saxon…standard use, storing and viewing. Futhark for things like prophesies…but Marcomannic is…”

“What?”

She shrugged. “It wasn’t in his dossier, but…I’d almost guess he was planning on using memories as ingredients in the potion, if the idea weren’t so…novel. I suppose I'll find out.” She sounded very excited at the prospect.

“Hm. And what’s a seed? Sorry, I must sound like a first year.”

“No,” she wound her arm through his, huddling close. “No, Pensieve magic is only touched on in Ancient Runes class, and that’s far from required. Pensieves are highly personal – usually buried next to their owners. A seed is the memory that…gives it a purpose. The Pensieve maker uses that to build the aura – gray matter, if you will.”

She paused long enough to take a breath. “You’ve seen one, you just don’t remember. The Hogwarts Pensieve is unique in that the Founders used four shared memories as their seed. A complex bit of magic, and lasting. Anyone can add to it – student or staff. It’s a piece of living history.”

“Have I put memories in there?”

She flinched, arm tightening in his. “I wouldn’t recommend re-introducing your memories like that. It might do more harm than good.”

He took that as a _yes_ , and tried to wonder what it would be like to watch one of his own memories from the outside. From her expression, he didn’t guess they would be good ones. “Well, I can see what Ron’s been going on about. He’s…abrasive.”

Her giggle was embarrassed. “I didn’t need you to defend me, you know.”

“Sorry – “

“I appreciate it, though. It’s sweet.” Her head touched on his shoulder for a moment. “You always went at each other in school. It was plenty deserved, don’t get me wrong, but I think he was just now rather shocked at what you suggested.”

“The muggleborn thing? I thought he and his family – “

“Yes. They were. In second year he called me a mudblood right to my face. Neither of us had any idea what it meant, but Ron went beserk.”

On the crosswalk ahead, a lorry kicked up a fine spray of puddle that didn’t touch them as they passed through it. The umbrella had an Umbrella charm over it – clever.

“As far as our interactions have gone, this one was rather pleasant,” she mused, turning them towards a warm looking diner. “I look forward to working with him.”

Hermione wasn’t one to forget things. It meant a lot that she could be so optimistic about Draco.

So what did it say, he wondered, that she didn’t ask him about the secret Draco had alluded to? Furthermore, why had she failed to inform him of the Floo connecting to Harry’s? She also hadn’t questioned his decision to let Draco stay at Grimmauld Place. Not once.

They were acquainted enough by now for Harry to know that the only questions Hermione didn’t ask were the ones she already knew the answers to.

___________________

“Harry? You home?”

Crouched painfully on the bathroom floor, Harry leaned back to shout through the open door. “Yes!”

There was a scuffling sound as George tripped over the rug, and then he was standing in the doorway, nose wrinkled. “What the hell is this?”

“Fleur said no cursing,” Harry chided, fixing the nappy adhesive despite Victoire’s squirming. “And I believe she said ‘no George’, as well.”

“Ungrateful cunt.”

“ _Oi!”_ He heard his wandless Stinging Hex hit its target as he tossed soiled fabric into the bin. Getting the fluffy green dress back on would take forever, and he would only have to take it back off later, so he just picked Victoire up and left it on the counter.

“She laughed in my face when I offered to babysit.” George strode off to the kitchen, tearing his orange robes off and tossing them onto the couch. “But the brain-damaged, not-even-blood-relative bugger is her first choice. Fantastic. I need your tea.”

“Language!” And the second time he’d been called brain-damaged that week. Perhaps he should worry.

Harry leaned away as Victoire grabbed for his glasses – her favorite game, it seemed. George rifled through his cabinets without preamble, making a happy noise when he found the loose-leaf containers Harry had pushed to the back.

“Why are you taking my tea?”

“I ordered a ton of this back in March. Thought it’d be too much, so I gave some to you. The _Pungent Prophesising Plum_ is turning out to be a bit more error than trial. I need it back.”

At Harry’s blank look, he sighed and stopped his whirling about long enough to scoop Victoire away.

“It’s an idea for a line of Tassology Tea – y’know, reading your leaves? – that is taking ridiculously long to perfect.” His smile turned crooked as Victoire babbled something that sounded distressed. “Are you going to feed her?”

Harry went to the fridge and pulled out one of the containers Fleur had left. It smelled vaguely of sweet potato and carrot, and matched perfectly to the color of George and Victoire's hair.

“Anyway, the spell keeps sticking. I _want_ them to spell out whatever the drinker is trying not to think of, but they’ll only give me the same two or three phrases.”

“What are the phrases?” Harry shoved aside the large, turquoise bag with the rest of the baby toys to the side and sat. George pulled a chair over and propped her up on his knee, for all the effort she made to slide to the floor like a boneless ginger heap.

“Don’t ask,” George muttered. “They’re much too personal. I’m trying for things like _bills_ and _your sister’s affair_. Y’know, so it’d be a laugh to give to your aunt at Christmas.”

“Ha,” Harry said drily, watching a scoop of carrot ooze out of Victoire’s mouth. “How’d you know I’d be here?” It was only just lunchtime – he’d normally be hanging around the Ministry. This was one of the few days where Hermione didn’t need him. “Or did you expect I wouldn’t be?”

George shrugged, casting a _Scourgify_ over Victoire’s chin. “You said Sunday you didn’t feel of much use at work. I didn’t know you were _this_ bored.”

“I didn’t offer out of boredom. It’s…fun.”

“Fun,” he repeated. “How? Does she do tricks?”

Harry blinked. “Have you _really_ never babysat your own niece?”

“No,” George sighed. “I expect Ron told Fleur about the things Fred and I used to do to him. Has Mum been over here?”

Harry chuckled and rifled through the pile of mail with his free hand. “Sent this around six this morning. Right when Fleur showed up.”

“That’s on purpose. What are they, instructions?”

“Yes. For the dolt who doesn’t know babies can’t drink tea.”

George read over the letter gleefully. “Did Fleur see it?”

Harry shook his head, idly trying to scoop escaped sludge into Victoire’s mouth for the third time. “Said she’d set it on fire if I opened it before she left – oh, _no_ , Victoire!”

She screeched, pleased at the mess now scattering Harry’s jumper. George didn’t help clean him up, distracted going through his mail. “Good girl,” he muttered absently, bouncing her on his knee and making an even bigger mess as she giggled her lunch up. “This is from McGonagall.”

“Yeah.” Harry gave up and pulled his jumper off. His wand was somewhere near the nappy station. “It’s about Teddy.”

“Yeah? Good news?” He didn’t unfold it, but his fingers twitched at the parchment edges.

“ _Eat,_ Victoire. Good! Yeah, she talked with him after I left Saturday.”

“And?” He frowned as Harry got distracted again. “You’re not doing that right. Give me.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, relieved – and disappointed he was so rubbish at feeding. “She said…It seems like he's looking at all of this as an _adventure._ I’m not sure she meant that as a good thing.”

“Adventure, eh? No, I don’t think she would. Still, with Harry Potter as a dad you expect him to be able to run with things.”

“I don’t expect that,” Harry murmured. “Not with something like this. Has he written you?”

“Yeah, thanked me for some things I sent up – “

“You mean the explosives,” Harry surmised. “After I told you not to.”

“Hmmm…no comment. But he didn’t mention any of your mess.”

He was eleven, Harry reminded himself. Too old and secretive to be opening up to anyone but his closest friends. Teddy would talk about it – if there was anything to talk about – when he was ready, and not before. His most recent letter to Harry had been a brief summary of the rest of his weekend, giving the impression of being too busy to really elaborate. It was happy, though.

“Hagrid wrote me, as well,” Harry said, retrieving it from the sitting room table and glancing over the words again. It was certainly an interesting correspondence – but the last paragraph had given him a good panic.

_Shame I missed you – your boy says you had a good day, despite the reason for visiting. I were in the Forest tracking Firenze’s cousin – owes me some sickles for a card game. Still got that item we discussed back in July, ready for you to come pick it up._

"I doubt he knows you're brain dead," George said, looking it over. "He probably just means the Ministry business."

"And the item? What could that be?"

“Don’t know what it’s about – sorry. Maybe you ordered a dragon or something.”

“A _dragon?_ ” Harry thought of the Gringott’s story, and shuddered. “Why are you laughing?”

George sobered, then relented, shifting the baby around to cradle her in one arm. “I was at that card game, is all. Knew Albne would try to run off without paying.”

Harry stared at him. “You were…playing cards with the groundskeeper? And why would he hide in the forest – ?”

“Hagrid’s a friend,” George said, like Harry should have known. “And Albne’s a centaur.”

Well, George certainly topped the weirdness with every conversation. “Why would a centaur need sickles?” Harry wondered, pulling items from the pantry.

“He doesn’t. Still took them off me easy enough, though. What are you doing?”

“I was thinking chicken sandwiches.” He started pulling the items needed from the fridge, feeling George’s stare on his back. “Are you hungry?”

“You’re cooking. You’ve _never_ cooked for me.” Victoire screeched again, and they both flinched. “My God,” George told her. “You sound just like your mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from a famous treatise dating back to original scholarly interest in runic alphabets, Marcomannic in particular is said to be used by the "Marcomanni, quos nos Nordmannos vocamus" (Translation: 'Marcomanni, whom we call Northmen'). The treatise appears to be referring to German speakers, whose letters "signify their incantations and divinations, because they are still given to pagan practices".


	5. Floo

He went to the Ministry again on Friday morning. The fountain was a jagged, abstract shape that could have been a lightning bolt, or a piece of broken mirror. A pair of women in their fifties called out his name, in the hopeful, unfamiliar way he’d come to associate with people who only knew him from the papers. They tittered when he waved, and he didn’t even care about the man in the pointed hat who took his photograph as he stepped onto the lift.

There had been two more ‘exposés’ done on him since the paisley disaster, both accusing him of a secret affair with different female Ministry employees. The ‘hopefuls’, as one Head Writer Brittany Barnesby wrote, were Romilda Vane of the Ludicrous Patents Office, Natalie McDonald from the Office of Misinformation, and, most upsettingly, Élise Smets the Auror.

He hadn’t seen her since that one came out, and anticipated her cheeky wink as he walked into the office. “Hello, Harry, me lover.”

The Briticism fell awkwardly through her accent. She and Ron alone shared the main table, with, shockingly, paperwork spread between them.

“Hey,” Ron said, probably surprised to see him. No one had asked him to come in, after all. “What’s going on?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Harry sighed, sitting.

“No more babysitting?”

“Not this week. I think your mum was getting anxious. What's going on? Where is everyone?”

“Out.” He held up a memo between two fingers. “Malfoy says the potion is underway. And _this_ ,” he slapped the memo down onto Draco’s project outline. “Tells us that if any Death Eater dies before he’s finished, it throws everything off and the potion won’t work.”

“Most of them are in prison, though, aren’t they?” Harry yawned.

“Not Macnair or Dolohov. That’s two.” He held up two fingers to match, ticking off as he went. “Malfoy’s dad is in Azkaban, as are Rookwood, Rowle, and Crouch Jr.” He put down his index finger, leaving only five. “Who doesn’t count. So, the way I see it, we need to ease off the search.”

Harry only nodded. He hadn’t been very involved with any of that since he woke up.

“’Cause if we did get lucky, and found one of them…well, they won’t come easily. I think I’d rather have a chance at finding Dolohov for certain than Macnair by accident.”

“Not that it was going swell, anyway,” Élise murmured.

“Are they not equally wanted?” Harry asked. “I know Dolohov attacked me, but – “

" _Merlin_ ," Ron said, wincing. "We didn't mention it, did we?"

"Mention what?"

Ron glanced at Élise. "He's the one who killed Lupin. In the battle."

Lupin. Harry sucked in a breath, a sudden weight in his stomach he couldn't easily identify. "Teddy's father."

“Yeah. Well, that’s just one of the reasons. But...” Ron shook his head and tapped the report again. “Did you read this?”

“I tried.” He had – for what felt like hours. But whatever part of his schooling or work experience that would give some context for advanced potionry was gone. “Couldn’t understand any of it.”

Ron smiled guiltily. “Neither could I, being honest.”

“I understood it,” Élise pointed out. Ron didn't look surprised.

“So did Hermione." He leaned in a bit. "She couldn’t find anything in here that explains why he could only do it once.”

Élise flipped it open, finding a page near the back and pushing it back to Ron. “There. Once he drinks the potion, anyone with the Mark will know what he’s done. They’ll be connected long enough for him to – “

“To find them, yes. And? All we’ll need is once more. That’s every Death Eater, off the streets.” Ron almost said something else, but bit it back, the _all but Malfoy_ going unspoken. “So what if Macnair knows it’s coming? What’ll he do, you know?”

 _Something rash_ , Harry thought. “You think he’s bluffing?”

“…No. I dunno.” Ron sighed and rolled his eyes. “I’m not stupid enough to ask him up front. Best let Hermione work it out.”

“Has she been to see him?”

“Not yet. Can’t imagine it’s pleasant over there – the place already smells, and you remember how manky the Polyjuice – “

“Ron.”

“Right. You _don’t_ remember. Good for you, honestly. I can still taste Crabbe.” He finished off a form with flourishing signature. “How you doing, Smets?”

“Finished.”

“Okay,” Ron pushed up, a pile of memos fisted in one hand. “Let’s delegate some of this.”

 _To who?_ Harry thought.

Ron stood at the white board and swiped his wand to the left. “ _Edare.”_

Harry stood next to him, getting a closer look as dark lines filled themselves in, words curling across with nary an inch of space to spare. It was a massive, ever-changing diagram of the inner workings of the Ministry. Ron tapped his wand to their division, and it as well as a third of the board turned red.

“Those,” he explained, “are departments that could use us, if we have time. Most offices have at least two Auror-trained workers, but sometimes that’s not enough.”

Harry had wondered why the Auror force was so small. One or two of their team would disappear from time to time to work on something with other departments, but the main pull of their work was the Death Eater problem and leads on Dark Wizards. Surely there was more crime going on in Central London.

Now, he saw, there really was.

“’Auror-trained’?” He repeated, confused.

“Yeah…something you started. After.”

"After," Harry repeated, sighing. 'After' always meant after the war. 

“The Auror department had been all but eliminated, or replaced by Death Eaters. Unspeakables weren’t talking about anything. Everyone else was coming out of a months-long _Imperius_ or plain being arrested on corruption charges. You and Hermione put your heads together and suggested what we do now. Aurors can sort of exist all over, and answer to everyone. No one has too much power.”

“Who do we report to?”

“Shacklebolt. The Minister.”

Harry _harrumphed._ “He knows what happened to me, yeah? And he hasn’t wanted to see me?”

Ron’s smile was awkward. “He’s even less sentimental than McGonagall. Fact is, you’re no use to him like this. He’ll want to see you when you’re back to normal, I'm sure.”

No use. That about summed it up, Harry thought, observing the board.

“That looks interesting," he pointed.

 _Breach of Security at Euro-Glyphs, London Branch,_ scrawled under the initials I.M.C.

“International Magical Cooperation,” Ron explained, then gave him a considering side-eye. “Alright lot, them. I wasn’t planning on going out, but… If you feel up for it…”

“You want me to _go?”_

Ron swayed his head side to side like a cobra, a wordless little dance of anticipation that made Harry laugh. “Alright. For appearances.”

His shoulder bumped the wall as Ron clapped his shoulder, leaning over the table to snag a blank memo. “What about you?”

Élise perched her chin on her hand, squinting at the board. “I think I’ll go see about Quidditch security. Does that say…missing _kneazle?”_

“Yep. Never a dull day in Catastrophes.” He tossed the memo up and it flew away, turning to Harry with a smile. “D’you think anyone told them to check Catford?”

_________________________

Harry and Ron were joined by a Greenbaum, no first name given. She was a tall, sturdy sort with neatly flat-twisted hair and upsetting height – really, was _everyone_ but Hermione taller than him? – that made him feel quite small walking between her and Ron. He just hoped she was alright being accused of having secretly married him.

As was custom around other Ministry workers, he hunched his shoulders and tried to look appropriately glum while she and Ron made pleasantries. There was an Apparition point in the Old Bank of London, just two blocks away from The Maughan Library on King’s College campus.

“ – don’t know anyone who’s gone here,” she was saying. “It’s the posh sort you get, usually.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, tucking his hand into his pocket in a casual gesture that Harry noticed Greenbaum mirroring. Checking for the shape of their wands in their waistbands. Always on the offensive. “Hermione looked into an education – sorry, that’s my wife – “

“Yes, I know who Hermione Granger is,” Greenbaum said, glancing at Harry with a knowing smile. “I don’t live under a rock, Weasley.”

“Oh. Well, long story short, their hieroglyph programs were falsely accredited. She never told anyone, though.”

Greenbaum’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s definitely something.”

“You mean a possible motive,” Harry said, trying to sound Auror-like.

She shrugged, watching a lone muggle pass them by with a glint of suspicion. “They didn’t say if the stolen records were personal or not. I’m not sure there’ll be much for us to do here – not that I would have turned down your help. Having Harry Potter along should smooth the process.”

“That’s optimistic,” he muttered. Ron elbowed him, but Greenbaum only laughed.

The Gothic Revival building currently blocking the sun marked the beginning of campus. It was tall and proud, presiding over Chancery Lane like a librarian over a rowdy student. It was a muggle university, but he knew Euro-Glyphs was somewhere inside.

Greenbaum nodded them towards an opening in a big gate separating the main body of the building from the street. The temperature couldn’t be above ten degrees, so the courtyard was mostly empty, save a few bodies hurrying from one destination to another. The path was lined in fading green shrubbery and bright orange treetops, converging on four suspiciously empty benches surrounding a statue.

“This it?” Ron tilted his head at the figure of Confucius carved in deep gray metal.

“So I’m told.” Greenbaum fiddled with a folded parchment. “Now we have to say….oh, this is just silly – “

She eyed the paper intensely for a moment, then looked up and recited something in stilted Chinese. Confucius gave some sort of answer before gathering his robes and stepping down from his perch. Ron and Harry both checked over their shoulders – no muggle so much as glanced their way, even as the stone podium silently sank downwards, unfolding itself into a set of stairs that led into a pitch dark blackness.

Greenbaum went first, the other two right behind. As their heads went underground, the stone above slid shut. In the sudden, total dark, he instinctively gripped Ron’s shoulder. Worse, the air on either side opened up – their footfalls echoing in a wide, undetermined amount of space. It happened so quickly he didn’t have time to speak – a violent upset quaked through his inner ear, destroying all notions of up or down. He shut his eyes, struggling to stay upright.

“What the bloody – “ Ron, one step above, doubled over. Harry’s eyes flew open at the sudden light.

The stairway had switched. Not moved, like at Hogwarts, but…they had been climbing down, and now they were going up. Large windows on either side showed the library courtyard far below. The last of the dizziness faded as he reoriented. He lowered his arms where they were held out for balance.

Ron leaned on a forearm against the wall, the back of his hand pressed against his mouth while the other gripped his wand tightly, like he thought Death Eaters were going to jump out of the woodwork. Greenbaum raised an eyebrow, unaffected.

“Just a bit of Spatial Switching,” she comforted. “You hung onto each other, didn’t you? That always makes it worse.”

“S’Fine,” Ron gasped, straightening up. “Worse than a Portkey, eh, Harry?”

They reached the landing. The staircase continued above them, spiraling up underneath a white marble ceiling, painted at the center in the image of a man with a beaked, indigo bird head. In Egyptian style, the head was turned in profile. One black eye swiveled around to look at all of them.

“Aurors,” a thin, waifish young woman stood to greet them. Harry looked at the scarf that covered her head and draped down her shoulders. The fabric was a lively coral, embroidered in gold patterns, the dress underneath a deep teal that made her golden skin glow. _Dupatta,_ he thought, wondering how he knew what it was called. He didn’t think he spoke Hindi at large.

“ _Svaagat he,”_ she said. “Welcome. We have been expecting you. Allow me.”

She scooped something up and leaned over her desk to hand them each a printed sticker of a stylized eye – the Eye of Horus. He followed Ron’s suit and peeled it from the flypaper, pressing it to his chest. The white outlines faded, the eye soaking up the color to sit embroidered on his dress shirt like it had always been there.

“Dr. Mahmoud is the Director of Euro-Glyphs, London. You can find him on the third floor. Office number thirty-one.”

When Harry looked up at the painting again, the god’s eye had closed.

____________________

Dr. Mahmoud was a man of few words and much anxiety. When Ron knocked at his office door he jumped to his feet, knocking a thick journal to the floor and nearly spilling his ink on a white patterned outfit that appeared to be the male version of what the receptionist wore. He had a short gray moustache that twitched as he shook their hands, and almost no hair save that which lined the lower circle of his head.

“Harry Potter!” He exclaimed in a Punjabi accent. The introductions had been brief with the other two, but now two of his hands clung to Harry’s, grasping tight so he couldn’t escape the thorough examination he received over thick bifocals. “This is an honor.”

Harry smiled, feeling trapped, until eventually Ron cleared his throat. Mahmoud blinked and released Harry’s hand.

“Oh, yes...It happened around midnight last night,” he said, leading them further down the corridor. The walls were carefully blocked so everything was a straight line, but Harry felt they were walking in a large circle. “If the wards are dismantled, all the clocks come to a stop.” He waved for emphasis as they passed one hung above a doorway, stopped at 12:05 (Harry assumed – the numbers had been replaced by glyphs). “Night security was here within minutes, but the intruder was gone.”

“Do you know where they entered?” Ron asked.

“A window,” Mahmoud said. “In the staff library.”

Two more turns, past one classroom in session – the professor faltered as they walked past, meeting Harry’s eyes in an awkward pass – and they were at a small set of doors, guarded on either side by two men in sunflower-yellow robes. They took one look at Harry and stepped aside.

Like the front atrium, this room was a circle. Bookshelves covered the walls on both of the levels, one big circular desk on the floor, lit at intervals with yellow-bulbed lamps. All under another piece of artwork – only the bird-man here sat at a desk. His one visible eye was open, gray instead of black. There was only one window, nestled between two bookshelves.

It didn’t look broken – that was the beginning and end of Harry’s Auror expertise. But Ron had told him to ‘take charge’, so he walked over to it and looked at the view. It wasn’t a fake window, like the ones at the Ministry. They were well up, at eye-level with the top of the Rolls Building. That put them six levels above the street, on a floor that didn’t appear to exist from the outside.

“May I?” Greenbaum asked. Harry glanced over his shoulder to see Mahmoud nod as she started waving her wand at the ceiling. Ron joined her, giving Harry a pointed look toward the window.

He turned back, thinking. This whole university was Illusioned. It existed, but couldn’t be seen from the outside. The lower panel slid up soundlessly, letting a burst of cold air that blew his hair about as he stuck his head out.

It was a strange feeling, turning his head to the side and seeing empty air. He reached a hand out, feeling rough stone. All that was visible was the little ledge he leaned on. Maybe it technically counted as inside? He didn’t know enough about the wards in place to be certain.

It was fairly weathered, pale beige like the building below, but there was a mark that stood out. Just on the corner, three small scrapes, dark and slippery under his touch. Varnish.

“Harry?”

He pulled his head in, nodding for Ron to take a look. “See that there?”

“Yeah,” he said, bumping his shoulder on the windowpane. “Yeah, it looks like…”

“Broomstick,” Harry finished. He’d seen something similar last week at the Burrow, on the semi-freshly painted garden fence. Arthur told him Teddy had skidded into it his first time on a broom that spring.

“I think you’re right,” Ron said, pulling back in and looking at Greenbaum. “Looks like someone flew a broomstick right up to the window. Wind’s coming in, as well."

“Makes sense.” Her eyes focused on things Harry couldn’t see. “Wards are Ministry erected. Last updated in ’99. Standard Triple-I – Invulnerability stratus was temporally dismantled. This room only.”

Ron raised his wand up, holding it like a microphone. “Code Demiguise at Euro-Glyphs. Respond immediately.” A silvery shape shot out the window. “Doctor, would you tell the front desk? You’ll have more Ministry on the way.”

Mahmoud nodded and pushed one door open, saying something rapid to one of the guards. While he did so, the three of them put their heads together.

“They knew where they were going,” Greenbaum said. “Illusionment stratus never went down. If they did fly a broomstick up here, they did it blind.”

“Someone who works here,” Ron guessed. “Or used to.”

Greenbaum frowned. “Yeah, but they also knew how to muck up these wards. _Our_ wards. That puts every Ministry-guarded estate at possible risk.”

“We never do the same thing twice. Most places add their own touch, as well. Sides, Shield Wizards running to every school and business’ll put the whole city in a panic.”

She nodded. “Not our jurisdiction, anyhow. I’ll try and get a better look near the entrance – be back.”

Ron glanced up at one of the stopped clocks. “Insurance wards stopped the clocks… Doctor,” he raised his voice a bit. Mahmoud perked up. “There would be a Duplication of what was stolen, correct?”

“Yes.” He dug in his long sash, producing a single scroll of parchment and handing it over. “One of my old projects. Translating architectural hieroglyphs for a counterpart in Giza.”

Ron unscrolled a long, crowded document with about a hundred small drawings arranged in two columns. Some were clearly Egyptian in origin, but the others were more minimalistic. “Can you think of anyone who would want access to this information?”

“Yes, but not through theft. I offer all of my work to any student affiliated with a university – even a Hogwarts student, several years back. The man I worked on this with has his own copies, which he also distributes.”

“Anyone who would want to steal from _you_ , specifically?” Harry asked, feeling brave.

Mahmoud didn’t even have to think about it. “I cannot think of anyone with a vendetta against me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Ron observed him for a short minute. He was different, here, in action. The long, oftentimes gangly lines of his body were more composed and intimidating. He cleaned up the loose ends of his accent and made slow, deliberate movements.

“Tell me a bit more about these translations, Doctor,” he asked, taking a chair.

Mahmoud sat, moustache fluttering as he gathered his thoughts and began speaking, long form and lecture-intensive. “The Pyramids, as you know, are some of the most long-lasting structures in the world. Non-magical folk still debate just how they were constructed, but of course we know. Architectural magic was never very prevalent outside of the Middle East – wizarding kind here moved out of the public eye much sooner. Only the Masonic organizations spread the texts to the west, for the sake of knowledge, and little else.

“We know exactly how the pyramids were built because of the Pyramid Texts. Since the discovery of the Rosetta Stone, scholars all over the world have been deciphering the incantations. The _Altaqlid_ movement of the middle 19th century brought about a mass rebuilding of the Egyptian wizarding societies. The glyphs, when used properly, are incredibly effective. For example…” He leaned forward, and Ron flattened the parchment to the table.

“This, the _eamud_ ,” he pointed to a hieroglyph, a vertical line with a squiggle above. “If you carve this into a column, it becomes not only linked to that which it supports, but every other inscribed column in the entire structure. And the _saqf_ carved into a cupola will ensure acoustically perfect dimensions.”

Greenbaum slipped in silently behind them. Mahmoud didn’t look up from the parchment. “Thirty years after the _Altaqlid_ began, symbols were found by an exchange student in a Swedish cathedral. Their placement and symmetry was similar, but the glyphs were Masonic in origin.”

“Masons,” Ron interjected. “One of my muggle Uncles was a Mason. But I’ve never heard of a wizard being part of all that.”

Mahmoud looked at Ron over his glasses, interested but clearly focusing on the task at hand. “When the magical and the mystical were one and the same, these organizations were for wizards and non-magicals to share thoughts on science, art, and mathematics. It was the belief that wizards disengaged sometime in the fifteenth century. The spread of this specific type of magic proves the opposite, going as far back as, at least, the discovery of the Rosetta Stone.”

“Fascinating,” Ron muttered almost begrudgingly. “So, you’ve translated them?”

“Yes,” Mahmoud sounded proud. “Well, I would call it…correlating, but, yes, I have. And it’s hardly conducive to any crime. Perhaps this person stole the wrong information?”

“And what do you suppose they were after?” Ron asked, his tone deceptively polite.

“We have a lot of research in this room. Centuries of translation efforts, comprehensive histories, Egyptian mythology…Islamic literature…” he shrugged. “All of it can be requested through any university registry in the magical world.”

Ron nodded shortly, looking down at the scroll. “May I take this as evidence, or…?”

“By all means.” Mahmoud stood. Ron’s shoulder brushed Harry’s once as they both got to their feet, then again with purpose. Harry cleared his throat.

“Anything else we need to know, Doctor?”

Mahmoud seemed marginally more flustered now that he was no longer teaching. “At the moment, nothing comes to mind.”

“Receptionist was able to help me,” Greenbaum said softly, on their way out. “The wards have some additional protection at the statue, but no one considered other points of entry as vulnerable.”

“The receptionist knew about the wards?” Ron asked. “Strange.”

“Told me she’s an exchange student, which might explain things. Sure, she could be a suspect – her and every other student who might know.”

“Current, former Ministry employees who attended,” Ron tacked on, waving at a pair of plain-clothes people walked past them on the steps. The Shield wizards. “ _I’ve_ never heard of a wizard Mason, but you could look that up, as well.”

“I’ll start on it,” Greenbaum said, stopping to shake their hands at the base of the stairs. “A pleasure, Potter.”

“Let us know if you need anything else,” Ron offered. She gave them a strange look and walked off through a corridor labeled _Administrative Offices._

The receptionist took their visitor eyes back, the sticker peeling off looking exactly as it had gone on, and thanked them for coming in. She was quite beautiful, Harry thought off-handedly, with bright hazel eyes and long dark hair.

“Well, that wasn’t convincing at all,” Ron said, a delicate shade of green as they climbed out of the statue steps. The temperature had dropped, clouds thickening in the sky. “You let me talk way too much.”

“I didn’t – “

“Yeah, it’s alright. You’ve got that whole – “ He waved in Harry’s general direction. “Mysterious thing going on. It works for you.”

“So that’s it? You’re not going to investigate?”

Ron shrugged. “It’s her job, really. I’ll help if she asks, say you’re too busy, or something.”

“Oh,” said Harry, vaguely disappointed. “Interesting stuff, though.”

“S’pose. I wonder…the burglar really thought this out. They dismantled the Invulnerability wards so they could fly in, went to the correct window, and disappeared before security showed up. All that, and they grabbed the wrong scroll? Doesn’t add up.”

“What would they want with some old construction magic?” Harry asked.

“Well – “ Ron hesitated, giving Harry a little smile that made him feel like a child trying their best. “Motives aren’t always logical. Could be something completely dull. Like what I’m about to do – paperwork!”

_______________

He only got out of pub night by making up a complete lie about George needing him. It was a spur of the moment thing, but Ron and Dean had accepted it without even a blink.

“He’s got you helping him test things, again?” Ron snorted. “He’ll use your lack of memory against you, you know.”

“Yeah,” Dean echoed. “All his old tricks – you’re a lamb to the slaughter.”

“Ah,” Harry had said. “Glorious.”

There really was nothing for it – he went to the Leaky Cauldron, declining the barkeep’s offer of a pint on the house. And that wasn’t the only offer; three other tables shouted his name. Maybe people he knew, or just people who knew him, but all the calls were sufficiently slurred that he felt fine just ducking his head and hurrying into the alley. They’d probably forget he was ever there.

 _Stupid,_ he thought as the brick wall gave way to more crowds. It was Friday night, and despite the late hour it was positively _bustling._ The shops were closed, but the restaurants and candy shops were still open, mingling crowds of young adults standing near the windows.

“Harry Potter!” A young, blonde girl shrieked. Her friends hurriedly tried to cover her mouth, wary of the firewhisky in her hand and casting him apologetic glances. He walked faster.

Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was still open, but Mel was beginning to usher people out. She gave Harry a half-eyeroll that he took to mean _lovely to see_ you _again_ as he walked up the steps, ducking out of the way of a herd of sailing paper thestrals.

He knocked on the plain door between the edible soap display and a stacked set of boxes with pictures of a tarantula on front. There was a slam, a clattering rush of footsteps, and George pulled the door open breathlessly.

“I told you to use the Floo.”

“I hate the Floo.” He looked down at George’s purple-flannel sweatpants. “Besides, I wanted some fresh air.”

“Well, come on, then. I’m sure I’m chuffed to the muff for customers to see me in my jammies.” He stepped out anyway, leaning over the railing. “Alright, Mel?”

“Harry, me lad,” Lee said, sitting on the carpet in the sitting room. The fire was low, warm light against the neon that filtered through dark curtains. “How are you?”

Harry had expected Lee to be there, but still found himself a bit at a loss. George had been over to his house twice that week, and never mentioned him. He must have been alright, Harry reasoned. At least something like George, who was, by far, the easiest of everyone to get along with. Except perhaps Ginny. George was like a friend, whereas Ron and Hermione fussed over him like siblings, or…

Well.

“I’m alright. And you?”

“Fine, fine,” Lee said lightly, waving a hand. “Come sit. I can’t fold all this by myself.”

George slipped off to the kitchen. It sounded like he was cooking, which Harry wasn’t entirely sure he trusted. He shed his robes and sat across from Lee. At least _he_ was wearing jeans.

“What are these for?” He took a square of cardboard from the pile, flipping to the printed side. _Jocund Jargon: Gummy Treats to Learn the Lingo._

“Candy. Out next month.” Lee showed him how to fold along the perforations, and how the finished product shaped into a block-bottom container with a film window. “Sort of like muggle wine gums?”

He held out a bowl of red and black liquorice pieces. Harry gave it a dubious look.

“Those aren’t like…like Giggle Gummies, are they?”

Lee laughed and shook his head, “No, but we’ve got plenty of that, if you like. Eat a few of these, and you’ll sound like a specialist. I just had three.”

Harry scooped up three of the red pieces, reluctantly popping them in his mouth. Lee had a certain glint in his eye that reminded him of George. “What does that mean?”

“Depends on what batch these are,” Lee shrugged. Harry had a question or two, but his mouth had been sealed shut.

“Still not feeling anything!” Lee called after the next few boxes were folded. Harry struggled to match his pace.

“You’re not meant to,” George snapped from the other room. “It should just…start.”

“Oh,” Lee said, rolling his eyes so Harry could see. “Pardon me. It should just _start,_ Harry. Did you know?”

Harry laughed, which nearly made him choke on the last of the candy as he swallowed. “What do you do for a living?”

“Quidditch announcer,” he said, totally at ease. Harry nearly wondered if George had told him after all, he was taking it so well. “This is the last Friday I’ll have off for nearly the entire year.”

Harry thought of the owl that had come to his house earlier in the week with two tickets inside – Appleby Arrows vs. the Ballycastle Bats. The very next Friday.

 _I get two tickets to give out every game this season,_ Ginny explained in the attached letter. _You usually don’t come unless I’m playing, but maybe you should – Quidditch is just too important, Harry. And you have to improve your Wronskey. Besides, Ron has a secret crush on Ballycastle’s Chaser (she was mean to him once at one of the after parties, so that’s probably why). George goes sometimes, as well. Speaking of – he told me Fleur let you BABYSIT? You can tell that skinny blonde – _

“Yeah!” Lee said, when Harry asked. “I’ll be on the wand with Jackie Phillipson. Think you’ll come? Ginny probably got you box seats.”

The neon lights outside shut off suddenly. “I – Probably not,” Harry said. “Crowds. I don’t exactly blend in, do I?”

Lee shrugged, still hopeful. “It’ll be the first game of the season. Always a madhouse – even you won’t be the center of attention. George doesn’t like crowds, either, but maybe he’d do it for a _friend!”_ He got pointedly louder at the end, met with an equally pointed silence from the other room. “Anyway, it’ll be a blast. Werewolf for the Weekend are playing the halftime, and Ilkley Stadium was approved for the first ever firework-replay. At the very least, that’ll be a laugh if it goes bad.”

Harry folded a lid closed. Lee made it sound so tempting… It would be a lot more people than pub night. But they’d have to watch the game instead of stare at Harry. And real Quidditch promised to be a lot more intense than yard rules at the Weasley’s. Then again, the first Gryffindor game was be the next morning. Maybe if he knew what he was talking about he and Teddy could discuss the game while they watched. Or something.

“How has work been?” Lee asked. Harry set a box aside and stretched his back.

“I’m not really in…the middle of things right now. Everyone’s been wilting while we wait for – “ He stopped, frowning at what had just come out of his mouth. “I mean, it’s been scarious – “

Lee snorted. “It’s started, George!”

There was some puttering around before George hobbled in, balancing two potted plants and a big leather-bound notebook in his hands. Harry pulled the stack of cardboard out of his way. Lee helped him put the plants down without breaking anything.

George sat facing them, long legs crossed so he could balance the notebook. “Gentlemen, would you describe these plants to me?”

Lee chewed a thumbnail. “Alive?”

“Top marks. Harry?”

The deep pink ones looked like pansies, but he didn’t recognize the others; tiny red flowers all clustered together in a single stalk.

He tried to say _pink_ , looking at the pansies. What he said was, “Perennial _viola tricolor._ ”

George wrote something down. “What does that mean?”

“Dunno,” Harry muttered. “I tried to say – _hermaphroditic._ “

 _Specialists_ , he thought. Ah.

“Self-fertile,” Lee cut in, huffing a laugh. “Bit like you at Hogwarts, George. Pollinated by bees from April to September.”

George gestured with his quill for them to continue.

 _Pretty_ , Harry tried to say. “Flowers are solitary and lateral, hoisted on long peduncles.”

“Pe _duncles,”_ George wrote down. “Ta, Har.”

They went on like that for a while, spouting utter nonsense about the flowers until the words stopped coming, and they were down to _red, leafy bugger,_ and _underwatered?_

“Only twenty minutes.” George sounded disappointed. “I’ll up the dosage a bit on the next batch.”

“This would’ve been useful in Herbology,” Lee said. George raised an eyebrow down at his writing. “ _No_ , Gee. Sprout would have your head.”

“What for? You couldn’t cheat on an exam with it. It’s only when you speak out loud. This was _Harry’s_ idea, you know.”

“You mean you’re putting these in those care packages?” Harry leaned to see what he was writing. George smacked his notebook shut. “What other ‘specialties’ have you cooked up?”

“Soup should be ready.” He kept his notebook out of reach of either of them, getting to his feet and skipping off to the kitchen. “We’ll try the medical ones next. You can take turns naming the bones in my feet.”

“Not bloody likely,” Lee said, following him. “What about those sugarplum doxies from a few weeks ago? Think they’ve calmed down yet?”

____________________________

He left before midnight, but only just. Lee insisted he used the Floo, which he only agreed to because they were sure the Leaky would only be more crowded than it had been before. They were still looking for one of the escaped doxies when he stepped into the green flames, muttering his address and bracing for the feeling of his stomach dropping out.

A few fireplaces rushed by – one looked like the Burrow – before his own. When it did, he stuck a foot out, only to find the opening already gone. There was a sharp pain in his ankle, and he needed to _breathe_ , so he waited for the next and all but threw himself out.

He knew it immediately, even as he crashed to the floor. Grimmauld Place. How…?

His bad shoulder throbbed from where he’d landed on a book. It smelled like something was burning. That got him to his feet, looking all around. The Floo flames died out, and there didn’t seem to be another source of the smell but for the cauldron.

It was gold, sitting over an unlit burner plate between the two sofas. Dark red sludge bubbled within. He leaned closer, wincing at the sharp smell. All around were more books, some open, some closed. Glass bottles of various sizes and shapes. It seemed haphazard, but Draco probably hadn’t planned on full grown Aurors falling out of the fireplace.

It was quiet aside from bubbling, but Harry was unsettled. He’d been thrown in here by some accident, yes, but there was something else going on. The place was…different.

Before, the air had smelled like dust and mildew. The potion was a bit rancid but Harry now could also smell something like citrus and freshly-cut grass. Every surface seemed too bright, and after a moment of looking at the piano he realized that the dust had gone completely. The wallpaper was less patchy, the curtains no longer had holes and stains… It was less an artifact room and more of a living space. Some of the chill seemed banished from the shadow.

“Potter.”

Harry swiveled on his heels. Draco stood in the doorway, and Harry was further unsettled because he, too, looked different. Instead of the dark draping robes, he wore plain trousers and a large mocha jumper, shoddy yet obviously expensive. His white-blonde hair was only sort-of pushed back, some of it falling over his forehead.

Draco was the first to lower his wand. Harry quickly did the same. “What do you call this? Come to kill me in my sleep?”

It didn’t look like he’d been sleeping. “I don’t know what happened. I said my address, and then…” he cleared his throat, feeling suddenly very awkward. “Hermione must have messed up the Floo.”

Draco’s eyebrow twitched once in annoyance.

“Is that supposed to smell like that?” Harry asked, nodding to the cauldron.

Draco set his jaw. "Of course it is."

Harry cringed internally. It wasn’t how he wanted it to go when he… well, it wasn’t like the forest. There was no blood or desperation. Draco was all drawn and impenetrable, obviously tired but still on his guard.

“I’m really sorry,” Harry apologized. “I’ll leave through the front, I think.”

Draco looked like he was going to say something, then stepped to the side. Harry took that as a cue and tried to walk out with as much dignity as he could. At the door, a hand closed around his arm. Only enough force to slow him, but he stopped cold.

“Why didn’t you tell them?” Draco’s voice was soft, confused. He looked down where his hand was on Harry, jaw clenched. “Legilimens. It’s illegal.”

“I know.” Harry thought he could smell alcohol on Draco’s breath, and something deep down inside of him felt…excited. “I understand why you did it.”

“Do you?” Less soft, now.

Harry nodded. “You thought I was an imposter. Polyjuiced, or something.”

Draco closed his eyes tightly, and let go of Harry’s arm. “You should go.”

__________________________

He didn’t sleep well. Not because of Draco. At least, not entirely because of Draco. He hadn’t been sleeping well for several nights now, tossing and turning and waking up feeling drained. Nightmares. They were impossible to remember. The feeling was usually helped by a few cups of tea, but he wasn’t sure it would last.

It _was_ because of Draco that he went to Hermione’s on Saturday morning. Using the Floo was the last thing he wanted to do, but it was too far for a walk and he didn’t know any Apparition points in South Kensington. It worked, thankfully, sending him straight to their flat without any problems.

He stopped himself from calling out her name, blinking at the picture in front of him. Hermione was on the couch, slumped sideways with her eyes shut. A blanket had been half-pulled over her shoulders and a book sat open in her lap, moments away from falling to the floor.

The cat lifted its head from the blanket and mewed softly, stretching and watching him move closer. Hermione rarely looked so peaceful. Dark curls were smashed between her cheek and the pillow. Her forehead was smoothed over without any of the ever-present lines of thought, making her seem younger. Smiling, he craned his neck to see what she was reading, attention captured by full-page woodblock print. A picture painted in dark lines and white relief..

It was disturbing.

A body, growing from the dirt. Her arms were caught still by her hips, elbows and spine twisting like she was fighting to break free and couldn’t. Harry imagined her face would be drawn in lines of agony, or fear, but instead of a head she had only a large sunflower sprouting from her neck. Unsettled, he looked at the next page, starting mid-sentence under the heading:

_The_ _Eleusinian Mysteries_

_(Ἐλευσίνια Μυστήρια_ )

 _\- was represented in a cycle with three phases: the "descent", the "search", and the “ascent”, with contrasted emotions from sorrow to joy which roused the_ mystae _to exultation._

 _The main theme exemplified the ascent of Persephone and the reunion with her mother Demeter. At the beginning of the feast, priests filled two special vessels and poured them out, the one towards the west, and the other towards the east. The people looking both to the sky and the earth shouted the incantation_ από τη βροχή σύλληψη, “from the rain, conception”.

 _In a ritual, a child was initiated from the hearth (the divine fire). The name_ _pais (child) appears in the Mycenean inscriptions,_ _[36]_ _It was the ritual of the "divine child" who originally was_ _Ploutos_ _. In the Homeric hymn the ritual is connected with the myth of the agricultural god_ _Triptolemos_ _._ _The high point of the celebration was an ear of grain cut in silence, which represented the force of the new life. The idea of immortality didn't exist in the mysteries at the beginning, but the initiated believed that they would have a better fate in the underworld. Death remained a reality, but at the same time a new beginning like the plant which grows from the buried seed._

 _Hippolytus of Rome_ _, one of the_ _Church Fathers and Philosophers of Agrarian Transmutation writing in the early 3rd century AD, discloses in_ Refutation of All Heresies _that "the Athenians, while initiating people into the Eleusinian rites, likewise display to those who are being admitted to the highest grade at these mysteries, the mighty, and marvellous, and most perfect secret suitable for one initiated into the highest mystic truths:_ an ear of grain in silence reaped _."_

Hermione seemed to subconsciously realize he was looming over her like a ghoul, and snapped awake with a startled _oh._ The cat bolted, jarring Harry into standing straight.

“Erm, sorry. I didn’t know to wake you or not.”

“I…” she blinked a few more times, closing the book. “Of course I should be up. The time?”

“Ten.” She groaned, pushing up in to a sitting position and pinching the bridge of her nose. “Pub night?”

“No, we had a night in. I…” She trailed off, looking very tired. “Just a long week, I think.”

Harry bit his tongue, thinking that every week of Hermione’s must be long. “Stay there. I’ll put on some tea.”

When he returned, she had the blanket wrapped around her, almost comically heavy-lidded. “I didn’t mean to doze off. Ron should have woken me on his way out.”

“Where is he?” He handed her a cup and sat on the far end of the couch.

“The Burrow,” she took a sip. “Helping Arthur with the garden. I should be getting over there, but…”

“What are you reading?”

“Oh.” She shifted just slightly, the corner of the blanket falling over the book cover. The wireless clicked on when she pointed her wand, a disembodied voice bringing them up to date on the latest banking trends. "Just something for work.

Harry let it go, staring at the where the book bulged under the fabric. Something about it... 

“You look nearly as tired as I feel. Weren’t you with George?”

He told her about the _Jocund Jargon_ candies, thinking she’d be interested.

“That’s…very impressive,” she admitted, with an aggravated shake of her head. “Damn.”

“What?”

“A few months ago... We were at the Burrow and he told me about a similar idea – he _never_ tells me things unless he wants advice, and I’ve sworn _not_ to help him. I only pointed out that a variation on the _Patented Daydream Charm_ would…put the words in someone’s mouth. I didn’t think he’d actually _do_ it.”

He wondered why she wouldn’t want to help. Maybe George had used Hermione’s vast knowledge for evil too many times. “You couldn’t stop yourself from suggesting it, could you?”

She shook her head, pouting out her lower lip. “No.”

They drank tea in silence for a moment, listening to the wireless.

“ _Eveningstar’s_ Divining Investor _will get you on track to ride the upswing in imported potionry goods. Find a leaflet at your local banking institution, or simply owl_ Eveningstar, 513 Vatblaski Street – “

“What are you doing today?” Hermione asked suddenly. “Come with me. Molly’s making hotpot.”

His stomach gave a weak cry. “I actually needed to talk to you. It’s about the fireplace.”

She frowned at him while he recounted the misadventure the night before, prodding a finger against the bruise on his ankle when he showed her.

“Ow.”

“Sorry.” She leaned back. “It must be that foul old house mucking things up. Was Malfoy there?”

“Yeah. We didn’t really talk,” he lied. "It was awkward."

Hermione stared into her own fireplace, then sighed. “I’m going over there Monday. I’ll look at it then.”

“But – doesn’t that mean anyone trying to get to my house could end up – ?“

She pulled the blanket back and deposited the book in Harry's lap. “Could you take this to him?”

“To _Draco?_ You want me to go back?”

“I’ve got to get to the Burrow. I’m late, and I still need to get dressed.” She stood up and stretched, walking off.

“I’d rather – “

“Thanks!” The bedroom door shut, and Harry took a deep breath, staring into the flames. He couldn’t. Not so soon, at least.

The green flames were warm against his legs. “Grimmauld Place,” he said. Nothing happened.

“Wright Way, Victoria.”

It all happened the same, only this time he kept his foot in as his house whizzed by, stepping out capably into the Grimmauld Place parlor.

The curtains were open, sun brightening the parlor and gleaming off Draco’s hair. He was cross-legged on the floor, robes fanning out around and a book open on his knee. The burner plate was lit with a purple flame, boiling the potion that was now a watery pink. It smelled the same, but a bit less strong.

Draco glanced up, looked surprised for a split-second, then grit his teeth. “I need quiet.”

He focused back on his hands, both gripping his wand and holding it in the potion, stirring very slowly. Harry set the book on a side table, hearing Draco almost silently counting to himself. His face was twisted up in concentration and frustration.

The delivery had been made. Harry could go if he wanted, and let Draco get on with it. But the embossed cover of the book seemed to mock him. What was an Elusinian Mystery? Maybe Draco knew more about it. Harry decided to wait and ask when Draco wasn't so preoccupied.

Sirius’ room. There had been some interesting books in there. Slipping quietly out of the parlor, he made his way upstairs, stopping at each landing to look around in consternation. It was spotless. All of it. The parlor was one thing, but Draco cleaning the entire house seemed far-fetched. Was there a House Elf here he didn’t know about?

The torches on the top floor burned brighter than before, but it was still silent as the grave. He undid the locking charms on Sirius’ door and went to the bookshelf, pulling one of the Transfiguration texts free.

On the way back down, he wondered where Draco was sleeping. The only remotely welcoming rooms were Sirius’ and, he assumed, Regulus’. The rest had barely more than a couple of mattresses on a bedframe, clearly converted to sleeping quarters during their stay here during the war.

Draco was done stirring when Harry eased back into the parlor, instead fiddling with a wristwatch. “What do you want, Potter?”

“Hermione sent me.” He let Sirius’ book _thunk_ to the oak side-table, picking the other one up. “With this.”

“What is it?” Draco asked without looking up.

Harry sat at the edge of the cushions, flipping until he found the flower-woman artwork again. There were other illustrations, but that one seemed to stick out. “A book. _Finding the Eleusinian.”_

“I asked the Ministry for a copy of that four days ago.”

When Harry looked up, Draco was giving him an expectant look. “I think she was reading it. Do you know what it's about?”

Draco glanced at the book disdainfully and leaned to the side, draping his watch against a book spine and writing something down with a large black quill. "How could I? I haven't read it."

Well, that was that. Harry didn't know what he expected. He sighed and changed the subject. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you." 

Draco stopped writing. “What could we possibly have to talk about?”

“Something that’s been bothering me.” If he was waiting for Draco to look back up, it didn’t happen. He was glancing between an open tome and his parchment, the black quill dancing across the page..

“You see,” Harry went on. “All I know about myself is what others have told me. Friends, coworkers…the papers. But it’s not that simple. There are things I think they don’t want to say. Or can’t. So I wanted to ask you.”

After a long pause, Draco set the quill down and curled his fingers around his wand. “You thought you’d ask me…what?”

“Who I am,” Harry said. "In the most general sense."

Draco’s hand convulsed around his wand, then released it, leaving it on the floor. “We’ve not spoken for eleven years. I don’t know you.”

“You knew me.” Harry thought of Hogwarts. Draco was always there, in Ron’s stories. “Enough to recognize me with _Legilimens._ What…what did you see?”

He didn’t think Draco expected him to ask that. The tops of his cheekbones turned the lightest shade of pink, his eyes taking on a far-off look. “It was surface level. I asked you who you were, to see if you'd answer truthfully or not. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular.”

“I told you I didn’t know my name.”

“It wasn’t important what you said,” Draco muttered, looking down at a book.

Harry pondered that. He didn’t know much about Legilimency. Maybe he would look for a book the next time he went to Diagon Alley.

“I knew you,” he said after a few moments of silence. Draco finally met his eyes, warily and almost unwillingly. “Enough to testify at your trial.

“ _Ah_ ,” Draco breathed. The book snapped shut and he pushed it off his knee, standing without tripping by doing something complicated with his wrists that moved the fabric of his robes just so. “So that’s what this is about. You want to know why you did it.” He turned and walked to the window, crossing his arms. “Everyone’s told you I should be locked up, am I correct?”

“Yes, they have.”

Draco nodded to the window, his reflection faint and wispy. “I always thought you were a prat. You got away with everything, and I hated it. I hated you.” His head bowed down. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

None of it surprised Harry, but he had hoped for something more…concrete. “It does seem that way. Me being a prat.”

Draco didn’t move, and Harry suddenly felt the need to put it to words. “I was so worried about you – “ he winced. Not _those_ words. “I had no idea who you were, mind. I couldn’t figure out why no one wanted me at the Ministry that night. To corroborate,” he added, using the Auror term. “Ron said no one wanted to bother me. Because of who I am…because of Harry Potter.”

Draco was quiet for a long moment, turning his head to the side. His profile was as sharp and angular as his voice. “I was talking about before. At school.”

“Oh.”

“And as far as the trial goes.” Draco turned suddenly, bracing his hands on the back of the other sofa. “To be honest, Potter, I have no idea why you did it. I never asked for your pity, and I certainly didn’t deserve it. You gave me no warning you were going to be there and you never spoke to me afterward.”

Harry looked at Draco, at the long lines of his arms and the turn of his nose and the circles beneath his eyes. He looked at this borderline stranger and could suddenly put it to words. The sleepless nights. The curiosity. He wanted Draco. Quite badly. It was such a strong certainty Harry could only assume it had always been there, regardless of their animosity.

“What are you doing? Hm?” Draco exhaled a laugh, oblivious to what Harry was thinking. “Whatever this…experiment of yours is meant to prove, you won’t thank yourself for it.”

 _That’s what I’m afraid of_. Harry stood, taking _Transfiguration and the Big Questions_ and weighing it in his hands. It was larger than Hermione’s book, but much lighter. He needed to get home. There was a mountain of paperwork Ron left for him to sign off on, and Todrick probably couldn’t find this place to deliver a letter from Teddy if it came.

“Why did you hate me? Did I do something to you?”

Draco crossed his arms. “I was a child, Potter. I don’t remember.”


	6. Earthshine in Exchange

_Harry,_

_Euro-Glyphs sounds brilliant! Marjorie Ferguson let me look at her Ancient Runes textbook yesterday, and I didn’t understand any of it but it looked so cool. And the Jargon gummies were_ my _idea, actually. Me and George were talking at your birthday dinner and I said the daydream charm was too obvious, because we both took one during that Easter service Mrs. Weasley made us go to and she knew right away because I wasn’t singing along to the hims. I said it would be better if the charm would make us answer questions and things instead of just drooling a bit._

_Things have been pretty boring around here, besides that everyone knows you’re coming to the game this weekend (I didn’t tell). There’s a rumour you’re going to referee._

_Reena says to tell you hi. We’re in the library now and I wanted to write you instead of doing a Potions essay. McGonagall said I could sit in the staff stands with you on Saturday, and is Uncle Ron coming again? George said I have to prank him somehow, if he does, and that you should be in on it because you’re ‘already mental enough’ and I shouldn’t be naughty because you’re a good dad and I shouldn’t forget that even though you have._

_Don’t tell him I told you any of that, though. I’ll be seeing you Saturday, and it’ll be freezing out and sometimes your shoulder hurts when it’s cold so dress warm I suppose. Love and such, _

_Ted._

__________________________

He met Ron and Hermione at half-past nine Saturday morning. The cold was blistering in Hogsmeade. Wind whipped leaves and spare droplets of rain into their faces as they Apparated near the trailhead. Harry had done his best to layer up in winter robes and two pairs of socks, but still felt underdressed. Ron and Hermione had matching lopsided hats and scarves, a little too amateur to be from Molly.

“You always underestimate,” she tutted right away, pulling her robes open to reveal a little bag on her hip. She pulled another red hat from it and squashed it down over his ears, along with a scarf. “How’s that?”

“Thanks,” he said, unsurprised but touched all the same. Warmth couldn’t fly straight through the top of his head anymore. “Better.”

He glanced back at the sleepy little town as they went up. The rooftops had a thin layer of frost that was quickly melting away, leaving a sparking dew on the chimneys and gutters. The houses all looked warm and cozy, making Harry ache for his morning tea and a fire.

“I wonder how good their Chaser is,” Ron wondered about the team as they walked. Hermione had nestled under his arm, arms crossed and her scarf over her nose. “What did Ted call her? Pinciotti? But it’s also on the Keeper, you know? And the Beaters…”

“Don’t forget the Seeker,” Hermione said with a wink to Harry.

“Oh, yeah, them too, of course…”

It wasn’t Minerva waiting at the gate. This time it was a squat, round old woman and a tall man. Neville.

“Hello, you three,” the woman said, looking up at them from underneath the brim of a pointed hat. Embroidered leaves and orange flowers danced back and forth. “You’re looking well, Potter.”

“You, as well,” he said, shaking Neville’s hand. “Hey.”

“Wotcher,” Nevile said, nodding and smiling in that semi-nervous way he had.

“Professor Sprout,” Hermione pulled her scarf down and gave the woman a half-hug, her smile wide as she looked up at the castle. “It’s been too long.”

The gate shut with a bang. Ron started off at a clip, winding his arm through Harry’s. It was work, keeping up with his and Neville’s long strides. His shoulder twinged. “Blimey,” he chuckled. “You’re excited.”

“We _both_ are,” Ron said in an undertone, reminding him. “I haven’t been to a Hogwarts game since Ginny’s eighth year.” Then, louder, “How’s the shop, Nev?”

“Smashing.” Neville tightened the collar of his robes, pulling his large silver earmuffs into place. “The Swedish Bubotubers just came into season. The students’ll go mad for ‘em… And the Starthistles are just starting to hibernate for the winter, so I can start to extract the nectar for shipment to St. Mungo’s.”

“What are – “ Harry started. Ron squeezed his arm and shook his head, plastering a smile on his face.

“Luna around?”

“’Course. Somewhere.”

The pitch loomed high above, the raised stands billowing behind maroon and green banners. It was a cloudy morning without too much sunlight, contrasting as sharply against the colors as they did against each other. They couldn’t see inside from this vantage point but it was clearly a full house. Not even the railing wind could cover the sound of that many voices.

They were approaching the base of one of the pillars marked _Staff._ A rickety set of steps went up and around through the inside of the structure. Just between the wooden slats he got a glimpse of brown grass and three high gold hoops. Then they were climbing.

“Ron, we look like schoolgirls,” Harry muttered as the crowd became louder. Ron looked down at their joined arms like he hadn’t noticed, dropping the contact.

“Sorry, mate. I feel like one.” He slowed down just a bit, leaning in with a glance at Neville’s back. “Starthistles,” he whispered. “You helped plant them.”

“Got it,” Harry sighed. It was hard to stop himself asking questions that he already should know the answers to.

Light opened up, and then they were on top. It was quite a lot to take in, all at once. The stands were packed, easily fitting the entire school in narrow rows. One half of the stadium was decked out in red, maroon, or gold blankets (and hats, and scarves, and any article of clothing Harry could name). A long line of students to the center top each held a wooden pike that supported a huge, sprawling tapestry that showed an animated lion chasing around a snake. The other half was green, silver, and black. Instead of a banner, they passed around an enormous, papier mache serpent, like a Chinese dragon, nearly.

The staff box was more of a mixture, but only barely. Harry saw Zabini at the far end, talking to a blonde woman. The other professors he couldn’t name, except for Minerva at the front, next to two students. One was in plain black robes, the other all in red with matching, firetruck colored hair. Harry made a move towards them.

At the same instant, a section of what he had assumed to be wall turned and caught him in a bone-crushing hug. His face was smushed against a scratchy beard that smelled of smoke and manure.

“Harry! Ah, if it ain’t good to see you!”

“Hagrid,” Harry guessed. George said he was a half giant. It was still difficult to understand the full scale of his size. Air flooded into his lungs as he was released, stumbling back so Ron could fall victim to the next hug.

“All of us, at the Quidditch games,” Hagrid boomed. A massive mane of shaggy gray hair fell over his shoulders, as long as the great beard that Ron was currently suffocating into. “Like ole’ times, innit?”

Harry felt himself smile and nod. When Hagrid finally let go, Ron _and_ Hermione stepped back. He hadn’t even seen her get sucked in. Her head had to tip all the way back just to address him.

“Lovely to see you, Hagrid!”

“You, too, ‘Mione, of course. Oh, Harry!”

Harry turned around, escape thwarted. At least Teddy had noticed him. “Yeah?”

“Find me before you go, Harry,” Hagrid said, giving him a meaningful look. “I, er, need yer help with summat’ at me cabin.”

He nodded, ignoring Hermione’s raised eyebrow. “Sure thing, Hagrid.”

Teddy met him halfway down the steep steps in a much less painful hug. “You just made it,” he said urgently, tugging him down the row toward Minerva. Harry waved her way, getting a tight smile in return. “It’s about to start.”

“Is it?” Harry looked out, failing to see either of the teams on the ground. Ron filed in to his right. Hermione was still going around talking to the professors.

“Harry,” Nevile began, right behind him. Harry turned, ready to evade whatever he was about to be asked. But before Neville could ask it, the blonde woman Zabini had been speaking to stepped down onto Harry’s bench, elbowing Neville aside. He only made room for her instead of looking angry.

“Harry,” she said intensely. “You look beautiful today.”

Then she leaned in and kissed his forehead. It drew him up short, both the words and the… _her._ She was like something out of a story book, the same book as Hogwarts. They weren’t exactly robes she was wearing, but a filmy, draping beryl-blue dress. The stitching was white and all over – stars, maybe. Or birds. Her hair was blonde and wavy almost down to her knees. Purple flowers were braided at intervals. Large blue eyes lined in silver blinked owlishly down at him.

“Hiya, Miss Luna,” Teddy said.

“Hello, Edward,” she said without looking away.

Harry relaxed. Luna. So this _was_ a person. Not a fairy apparition.

“Aren’t you freezing?” Hermione cried over the volume. Luna plucked the hat from Harry’s head and fixed it over her own. One of the flowers fell out of her hair and onto the wooden floor.

“Not anymore.”

Harry was still at a loss for words. There was a rapid, exponential rise in volume from the crowd that had him spinning to look. But the teams still weren’t out. He looked around at ground level, confused.

“ _Harry,”_ Teddy said in a strange tone, eyes wide. The floor seemed to crumble out from under him as he realized the entire stadium had their faces turned to the Staff box.

“What – “

“Oops,” Luna giggled. “I think they recognized your hair. Harry. Get it?”

The formless, undefined roar focused into one word. His stomach turned. “ _Har-ry! Har-ry! Har-ry!”_

“Do something!” Ron said. Harry balked.

“You’re joking.”

Teddy squeezed his hand. “They’re saying your name!”

The thing was…they _were._ Harry was flabbergasted. Maybe it was stupid to be so surprised, after the looks and whispers he faced in the streets. But this was markedly different.

Ron gripped his hand and pulled it up, their fists raised like champions at a boxing match. It was _silly_. It was ridiculous and camp and he should have hated it.

The crowd went bonkers. Across the field, the lion on the banner opened its jaw in a soundless roar, gold letters spelling out _Weasley is Our King._

“That’s _my_ name!” Ron cried, evidently forgetting his hatred of the song. “’Mione! That’s my name!”

The student next to Teddy jumped to her feet, bending to whisper something in Minerva’s ear. She pursed her lips, and after giving Harry a very amused look, nodded. The girl – Asian features, spiky black hair cut in what he would hazard to call a mullet – squeezed around Teddy, holding out her wand.

“You can just speak into the tip, Mr. Potter.”

His mouth dropped open. “And what am I to say?”

She bit her lip and shrugged.

“Something brilliant!” Teddy suggested helpfully. Harry thought that was an absurd request, but the crowd was chanting his name, still, and the wand was in his hand. When had he taken it?

Ron leaned into his ear and whispered something.

“Okay, I’m _not_ saying that! They’re _children – “_

“Fine, then, just…” Ron and Teddy shared an excited look. “Just be Harry Potter, you know?”

“I – “

Ron prodded him in the chest, eyes bright with excitement. “Come on. They’ll eat up anything you say.”

“I’d rather rob Gringotts,” he muttered. “ _Again._ ”

But as he lifted the wand to his mouth, a reserve of bravery Harry wasn’t prepared for sort of…took over. Maybe it had something to do with the way Teddy was jumping up and down, hands over his mouth. Ron looked like he’d faint.

“HOGWARTS,” Harry said, and his voice wasn’t his voice. It was amplified, rippling over the sound of the audience like a thousand of him. At the sound of it, the crowd cheered back ravenously. “ARE YOU READY FOR A…QUIDDITCH MATCH?”

If the crowd didn’t react so strongly, he might have sunk through the floor in embarrassment. But they _did._ There was a ripple as many of them cupped their hands to their mouths as they yelled.

“I _SAID_ ,” Harry challenged. “ARE YOU READY FOR A _QUIDDITCH MATCH?”_

It was like a small explosion had gone off – the cacophony ascended to something almost inhuman, and now the _professors_ were yelling behind him. Ron, Neville, and Teddy all whooped. The Slytherins’ serpent suddenly shot up, flying in a perfect spiral once before falling gently back to the awaiting hands.

Harry handed the wand off, shaking his head but unable to hold back an exhilarated laugh.

“They’ll be talking about that one for a while,” Neville said. Harry looked over his shoulder, shrugging. There were only two unsmiling faces in the whole box. Zabini was still at the back corner, next to a pudge older man who laughed heartily at something Professor Sprout was whispering in his ear. Zabini didn’t look particularly antagonistic. Just half-resigned to being amused.

Hermione had climbed up to stand next to Luna. Instead of participating in the storm of applause, she stared at Harry with something akin to fear. There was no amusement anywhere on her face – and he didn’t understand. Everyone else had seemed chuffed.

“SETTLE DOWN,” Minerva was saying into the wand, her stern voice doing absolutely nothing to quell the increasing rowdiness. “I _SAW_ THAT, MISTER GRAMSBY – “

“Look, Har, here they come!” Ron shook him.

They and Teddy all leaned over the wood beam, only to fall back as seven figures shot up past the box and into the air in a line formation.

“HERE COMES THE GRYFFINDORS,” boomed the other student, amplifying her voice further by actually just yelling into her wand. “THEY’VE PRACTICED DAY AND NIGHT FOR WEEKS, READY TO TAKE BACK THE CUP THEY LOST LAST YEAR, AND HERE COME OUR FORMER SCHOOL CHAMPIONS – “

“SLYTHERIN!” The green half exploded, matching her volume impressively. The green team circled the pitch once, fists raised. The audience was a bit hard to control after that, until a fifteenth figure kicked off from the ground. The announcer – Emma, Teddy informed him – introduced him as Gregory Dickson the Flying Instructor, and referee. The teams flew to meet him, getting into positions. Then someone on the ground opened a large trunk, and the balls were released.

The two hour game felt like ten minutes. There was so much to see: the Chasers rushing the Keepers, Beaters trying to knock them off their brooms, and the two Seekers hovering above. They were probably the most fun to watch, because they rarely moved. When they did, it was either a bluff or because they actually saw the Snitch – impossible to know and therefore always exciting.

The Gryffindor Keeper was unstoppable, only allowing the Quaffle past once after ducking a Bludger. Harry, Ron and Teddy groaned in unison. Behind them, Luna and Hermione were talking about Astronomy. At least, that’s what he assumed from the snatches of conversation he heard.

“I did send you the clipping from _Cometstuupa,_ didn’t I?”

“Yes, but I don’t read Swedish – “

“It’s important you know that Chiron will be in the eight house of Virgo this week, inviting mistrust in your marital heritage and interpersonal – “

“Thank you, Luna,” Hermione said with thinly veiled impatience. “I will take that into account.”

Suddenly, the Slytherin Seeker fell into a nosedive, there was a burst of noise all around as everyone jostled to get a view of the grass. If this wasn’t a Feint, they may just crash straight into the ground. The Gryffindor Seeker was right on her tail, and a collision seemed imminent. Harry sucked in a breath, the wooden bar hard against his stomach. In the corner of his eye, he saw Minerva brace her hand on her wand.

“ _Oof,”_ Ron breathed, as the Seekers both twisted at the last second. They still fell onto the grass, but it was more of a controlled roll than a wreck.

“THEY ARE GETTING TO THEIR FEET,” Emma narrated, eyes wide. The figure in green robes gesticulated wildly like they were yelling, and then the Gryffindor Seeker shoved them, hard.

“AND ITS FISTICUFFS ON THE QUIDDITCH PITCH. _OUCH,_ LOOKS LIKE MARKS LANDED A GOOD ONE THERE – “ The Slytherin player stumbled backward from a nasty punch to the stomach. “HERE COMES THE REFEREE, WILL HE _GET_ THERE IN TIME? OI – _EMERSON, YOU TOSSER – “_

“ _Missus_ Sato,” Minerva scolded.

“SORRY, HEADMISTRESS. IT WAS A LOW BLOW, YOU HAVE TO ADMIT – “ The referee touched down next to the fight, gesturing with his wand. Everything up top was still in full force. Slytherin scored while the Keeper was distracted, and the red side of the stands was screaming for a time-out. “IT IS UNCLEAR, I REPEAT UNCLEAR WHETHER THE REFEREE WILL CALL A FOUL – “

The two Seekers suddenly broke apart, but the referee hadn’t yet pulled his wand. Their heads turned in the same direction to keep something in their line of sight. They looked back at each other, and then –

“THEY ARE RUNNING, FOLKS. THE SEEKERS ARE RUNNING ON FOOT – “ The two players were sprinting, somehow keeping their brooms between their legs and simultaneously bumping shoulders, arms outstretched. “ARE THEY CONCUSSED? DO THEY SEE THE SNITCH? INQUIRING ANNOUNCERS WOULD LIKE TO KNOW… WHAT’S THAT? HAS SHE – SHE _HASN’T_ – “

The Slytherin Seeker jumped up and down, holding something aloft that Harry couldn’t see from the distance. The crowd exploded in cheers and jeers in equal measure. Emma sighed, rolling her eyes before leaning back into the wand.

“ _EMERSON CATCHES THE SNITCH, SLYTHERIN TAKES IT BY THIRTY FIVE POINTS.”_

“Blast it,” Ron groaned, dropping his head to his hands.

“It’s only the first game,” Neville said.

“It was _amazing_.” Teddy leaned forward to hoop and holler. “I don’t even _care_ that we lost.”

Harry laughed as the Slytherins’ serpent was carried across the air by the winning team, shooting green sparks out of its mouth.

________________________

“I think they’re gone now,” Luna said a while later, standing on the topmost bench to look down at where a crowd had been gathered, waiting for Harry. The hat looked utterly out of place on her. “Or they’ve hidden. I didn’t bring my Spectrespecs.”

Teddy was getting antsy, but it wasn’t until they were walking toward the castle that Harry asked about it.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just – I think they must be having a party in the common room right now. They were decorating this morning.”

“Sounds fun. You should go.”

Teddy looked up, and then behind them, where the others lagged. Luna was still lecturing Hermione about her horoscope, and Ron was making some acrobatically boggled expressions at Neville. “ _Marital heritage’?_ Are you divorcing me, Hermione?”

“Did you like the game?” Teddy asked, diverting his attention back.

“Of course I did. It was…” he shrugged. “Incredible.”

“You were laughing.”

Harry closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before opening them again. Teddy looked hopeful. What exactly he was hoping for, Harry had no idea. “I was having fun. That’s what happens.”

“Yeah.” Teddy shoved his hands in his pockets, walking off to the side of the path. Harry felt the others draw further away to give them some privacy. “Thanks for coming, Harry.”

He frowned, reaching out to tousle Teddy’s hair. “Of course I came.”

“You’re letters have been so nice. I – I – “ He leaned forward, pressing his forehead into Harry’s chest. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

It didn’t feel strange at all to cradle the back of his head. “You don’t need to worry about me, Ted. I’m – “

“I know,” Teddy sniffed, and it sounded wet. “You’re an adult.”

Harry gripped his shoulder and pushed him back up. Teddy was worried about him. It felt like he’d failed, somehow. “I was going to say I have Hermione and Ron to keep me in line. _And_ Mrs. Weasley.”

Teddy laughed, wiping his eyes. His nose was nearly the same shade as his hair after being in the cold for so long. Then he was serious again. “You have to tell me if something happens.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Teddy said, shaking his head a bit. “Forget it.”

Harry pulled him in for a much tighter hug, willing back the tightness in his throat. “I will. I promise.”

Teddy only nodded, pulling away as someone called his name from far off. Reena was standing at the entrance to one of the castle’s many courtyards, waving. They both waved back.

“Tell me how it goes, won’t you?”

“How what goes?”

His answering grin was entirely too much like George’s. “You’ll see.”

Hermione was giving him another one of her looks as he walked back to join them. Luna still somehow didn’t look cold, even as the wind swirled her dress fabric all around like Boreus personified.

“Why did Hagrid want to see you?”

“I honestly have no clue.”

Hermione frowned dubiously and turned to Neville and Luna. “We’ll meet you at the Broomsticks.”

“Yes,” Luna said, looking up at the clouds. “Come on, Neville. It’s going to snow.”

“I’ll get us a booth,” Neville said. As they walked off he tried giving Luna his outer robe again. She refused.

Harry told Ron and Hermione about the letter as they went back toward the pitch. “I mean, what sort of thing would I have asked him for?”

“A hippogriff?” Ron guessed. Harry hoped he was being facetious.

Once they were past a small pile of stacked rocks, he saw the cabin. It was small against the looming forest, built out of brick and wood and a good deal of luck – the angles weren’t at all sturdy but it was clearly old. Smoke rolled out of the chimney, promising warmth.

“Hagrid has friends in the black market, Harry.”

Harry looked at Hermione, dead grass and leaves crunching under their feet. “He’s the gamekeeper.”

“He’s also a professor,” she corrected, which was some news to Harry. “And when we were first years, he hatched a dragon egg in his house _and_ procured a three-headed dog to guard the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“Harry wouldn’t have asked for a dragon,” Ron reasoned. “Maybe you wanted another owl now that – “

“Harry could get an owl in Diagon Alley,” Hermione started to argue. A high-pitched yapping interrupted her. From the depths of the trees, a white and brown ball of hair bounded toward them, hopping easily over a pile of timber near the little garden in the shadow of the cabin.

“ _Butcher!”_ Ron laughed, falling to his knees. The dog threw itself against his chest, straining up on its bag legs to lick at his chin. Two tails – one light brown, one pure white – wagged wildly as Ron lifted him into his arms. “He was just a cruppy when we saw him last.”

It was smaller than Harry thought a crup should be, but the long hair suggested some cross breeding. It jumped from Ron’s arms to Hermione’s, who looked begrudgingly charmed as it sniffed wildly in her hair.

“Stop it, Ron,” she crooned, without looking. Indeed, Ron had a cruppy-esque look on his own face. “There’s too many muggles in our building. Not to mention Buck. Crups are territorial.”

“But, ‘Mione…”

Harry grinned as the dog scrambled into his arms. It was surprisingly heavy, or just well-fed underneath all that fur. Underneath a heavy white fringe he could see dark eyes, and a pink tongue swiped against his nose when he didn’t pull back quickly enough. He laughed and scratched behind it’s ears.

“Tha’ you, Harry?” The front door to the cabin opened, emitting Hagrid’s massive head. “Oh, it’s the lot. Shoulda known, shoulda known…”

The door closed.

Harry set the dog down, expecting it to run to its master. But it only darted around their ankles as they approached the cabin. Ron knocked, bemused.

“Alright, Hagrid?”

“Er…” The door opened a crack. “Jus’ Harry, I think, if you two don’ mind.”

Hermione gave Harry an accusing look, then wordlessly tugged Ron back by the back of his robes. “Go on, Harry.”

The door opened a mite further. Harry slipped inside.

It was warm. Sweltering, actually. And quite dark. The first thing he saw was the _massive_ bed, shoved into one corner. Beside that was a table covered in books and stacks of papers. An armchair the size of a taxi glowed from the firelight. It smelled overwhelmingly of pine and cooking meat.

“Surprised you brought them, ter be honest,” Hagrid was saying, inching along the wall. “You _intimated_ you’d wanted a bit o’secrecy, is all.”

 _Is that what you call that stunt up in the stands?_ “Hagrid,” he said, looking around for the source of Hagrid’s evident fear. “What’s going on?”

Hagrid’s eyes moved up. “He’s been a’right, so long as I keep ‘im fed. Had Butch out catching mice fer ‘im.”

“Him?” Harry followed his gaze, up to the shockingly cavernous ceiling. It was magicked to stretch up, accommodating shelves and hanging, vaguely fowl-like shapes, all at oblique, lopsided angles. Harry saw more books, a glowing bonsai tree with white flowers, a pale lilac scarf wrapped around an enclosed jar with a rose inside.

And, from one of the lower rafters, a four-foot long cobra.

His back was against the wall in seconds, sending something clattering to the floor. “What – um – “ He pointed his wand, and Hagrid hurriedly pushed his wrist down.

“What’re you doin’?”

“That’s a _snake_ , Hagrid – “

“Aye!” Hagrid’s eyes were wide. “The one you asked me fer!”

“Why the bloody _hell_ would I ask for _that?”_

The snake’s body twisted along the wooden beam, the flared head descending and now less than a foot away from Harry’s face.

“Well, you were wantin’ a pet, I thought,” Hagrid said, still carefully inching away. He sounded hurt, and Harry struggled to modulate his tone.

“I asked you to get me a snake?”

“Aye,” Hagrid said. Harry swallowed. “Mayhaps you oughta try talkin’ to it. I think he’s used to me, but since yer new and all…”

 _Talking to a snake_ , Harry thought with dismay. _I’m in a giant’s house, and he’s asking me to talk to a snake._

“Hello, erm, snake,” he said. Hagrid gave him a bewildered look.

“What’re you doin’ that fer?”

“You _told_ me to talk to it!” Harry cried, beginning to doubt his own sanity.

“No’ like _that!”_

The front door burst open, and Hermione marched in, shaking Ron’s hand away as he tried to stop her. “What is going on in here?”

“ _FUCKING HELL_ ,” Ron shouted, jerking her back by the shoulders. The snake reared back a little at their sudden appearance.

_“Cold…”_

“Ronald!”

He shoved himself in front of her, backing well away so she was more on the stoop than in the house. “That thing’s _enormous!”_

“Argh, _Ron!“_

“Everyone jus’ calm down!” Hagrid said in a raised voice. “It won’ hurt you.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the snake dropped to the floor with a heavy _thud,_ it’s head shooting up to nearly knee-level. Ron raised his wand.

“ _Immobilus!”_

Not only did nothing happen, the wand exploded into feathers with a _bang_. Ron yelled again.

“Stop!” Harry said as the snake slithered closer to him. Only adding to the shock of the scene, the snake actually did stop, it’s beady black eyes turning to Harry.

“ _Stop the cold.”_

He was vaguely aware of the feathers flocking to Ron’s face, forming a beard and moustache. Ron was madly trying to fight them off, Hermione was desperately trying to get back inside, and Hagrid yelled for them to keep Butcher outside. But the _snake_ had just _talked_ , so why weren’t they more interested in that?

“You can understand me?” Harry said, in wonder. The snake bobbed it’s head and bared long fangs.

“ _Of course,”_ it hissed. _“You speak the tongue.”_

It was retreating, now, toward the fire. Harry moved forward and crouched down, entranced.

“George snuck that wand in my robes,” Ron roared. “I’ll kill him!”

Harry decided against correcting him. It was as much George’s fault, anyway, for telling Teddy to do it.

“Shut the door,” he said. There was some shuffling, then it slammed closed.

“ _Finito georgano,”_ Hermione said.

Harry glanced over his shoulder. Ron was feeling at his now bare chin with relief, trying to find his actual wand.

“The – the snake. It can _talk – “_

“Of _course it can_ ,” Hermione said, looking irritated. “To _you_.”

“Erm, _what?”_

“Now, what in the blazes is goin’ on, here?” Hagrid asked, eyes narrowed. “You forgot you were a Parselmouth?”

“No,” Hermione said. Ron was half in front of her, valiantly trying to not look scared now that he had his wand at the ready. “No, I’m sure Harry was just surprised, is all.”

“What fer? He’s the one who – “

“Hagrid,” Hermione said calmly. “Where did you get it?”

Harry crept forward, getting down on his knees to look under the armchair, where the snake had curled in on itself. Green scales glinted as it shifted to watch him right back.

“Aw,” Hagrid blew an evasive breath. “Jus’ heard about – erm – through the grapevine, and – I, well, it’s not too often you get ter see a – “

“Where are you from?” Harry asked, trying to be gentle and keeping his wand in his hand. He didn’t know if the ability to communicate would make the snake any less inclined to lunge at him. The voices behind him went silent.

“ _Cold and dark,”_ the snake hissed back, turning its face towards Harry. “ _Brothers and sisters, gone…this one is warmer. I smell the forest on him.”_

Harry looked over his shoulder, where the other three were staring. “What does he mean?”

“What did it say, Harry?” Hermione asked, her eyes wide.

“You mean, you didn’t…” Whatever was going on, it appeared Ron had caught on. He was shaking his head, glancing between Harry and Hagrid. “He said Hagrid smells like the forest.”

“Oh!” Hagrid broke into a smile, rosy cheeks swelling. “Tell ‘im I said thank you.”

Harry did, leaning back down. The snake was poking it’s head out, now, and the flaps near its head were retracted. “Has he been taking care of you?”

“ _Keeps the biggest mouse away….”_ Harry assumed he meant Butcher. “ _But it is…satisfactory. Warm. He is too big to eat, at least.”_

Not only could the snake talk, it could make _jokes_.

Harry hoped it was a joke.

He was really, properly mad. Completely off his rocker.

“He likes you,” he told Hagrid, who looked impossibly more pleased.

Hermione didn’t. “That’s not _just_ a cobra, is it?”

Harry looked to see, freezing as he nearly bumped noses with the snake. Oddly, though, he wasn’t afraid. Just wary.

 _“You smell of cold,”_ it said, swaying just slightly. Harry nodded.

“Would you like to come home with me?” If it could talk, then he felt it was rude to not at least ask. “I can build you a fire, there. It’s plenty warm.”

The snake seemed to think about it, swaying up higher to look at the others. “ _And if I wish to stay?”_

“Erm, well, I’m sure Hagrid wouldn’t mind.”

The snake’s tongue flickered in and out for a few moments. Harry’s back hurt, but he didn’t dare move. Somehow, he knew he shouldn’t. Someone (Ron) was breathing very hard, and he bet there were at least two wands trained on the snake.

“ _I will go with you,”_ it said, finally. “ _It is nice to…converse…with another.”_

It lowered its head, dropping to the floor and twisting around closer to the fire. Hermione released a massive breath as Harry got to his feet.

“He said he’ll go with me.”

“Whizzer!” Hagrid clapped. “I got a cage fer him, somewhere ‘round here…”

“What is it, Hagrid?” Hermione asked tightly, not to be waylaid.

“Well…er…” Hagrid bustled around, raising a gnarled, branch-like wand. “I think there were some mention… _accio cage_ …boomslang ancestry.”

Hermione pressed her hand to her forehead. “You can’t have a _boomslang_ here! Much less London! Harry, what were you thinking?”

Harry huffed and got to his feet. Hagrid handed him a small, wire cage. Hermione immediately took it away, shaking her head.

“It’s much too cold for that. _Coherceo._ ” A large, transparent bubble expanded from the tip of her wand, floating over to the snake and enclosing it. It twisted and hissed inside, but Harry could no longer hear it. “ _Diminiti.”_

It shrank down, until the bubble fit in the palm of Harry’s hand.

“That will keep it warm,” she said, then crossed her arms. “I assume from the color it’s at least half.”

“So it’s only half illegal,” Harry said. She glared. “Come on, we’re gonna be late to the Broomsticks.”

He bubble fit comfortably inside his robe pocket. Between the snakes compliments and Hermione’s nagging, Hagrid seemed to have forgot there was something wrong with Harry. They were well out of hearing range of the little cabin before Hermione started in.

“ _Honestly,_ Harry. This is the most irresponsible – “

“ _Fuck’s_ sake,” he said. He must never speak to Hermione like that, because she gasped and Ron’s eyebrows met his hairline. Harry gentled his tone. “I didn’t do it, alright? _Your_ Harry did.”

Her nostrils flared. “Well, I expect you’ll be turning it over to the Ministry the moment we – “

“Why?” He challenged. “It’s a _talking_ snake! I didn’t even – “

“Harry.” Ron eyed the pocket that held the bubble with apprehension. “The snake doesn’t talk.”

“ _You_ do.” Hermione sighed. “I told you at the Ministry – you’re a Parseltongue.”

“Snake language.” Ron’s nose wrinkled. “You and Voldemort could both speak to snakes. It’s a Horcrux thing.”

Parseltongue had been mentioned a few times, in passing. No one ever said what it _meant_. He turned his face up to the clouds for a second, breathing. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Ron said, incredulous.

“Yeah. Okay. Let’s go meet them.” He started walking towards Hogsmeade.

“You’re keeping it?” Hermione badgered. “You don’t even know if it’s venomous or not. Boomslangs are strong. It could attack you in your – “

“Thank you, Hermione,” Harry said. His shoulder was really starting to throb. “Without you, I would never know to take any precaution at all. I might just invite Dolohov for tea and let him use my wand to stir the sugar.”

“ _Harry.”_ She planted herself in front of him, eyes dark and furious. “ _Why did you want it?”_

He stared down at her. This wasn’t just about the snake. There was something else that had her so riled up, but how was he supposed to know? He wasn’t a mind reader.

“Leave it, ‘Mione,” Ron said, unexpectedly harsh. “This is why he doesn’t tell you stuff.”

“He didn’t tell _you_ , either, Ronald.”

“And I’d be happy not to know!” He shuddered. “Now, I want to have Butterbeers with our friends. Is that too much to ask?”

__________________________________

Harry could talk to snakes. Actually _talk_. It wasn’t too much of a leap, in his opinion, to put it together: he must have wanted a pet snake for a while, and waited for Teddy to go away to try and…train one? If they could even be trained, that was. Why he needed an illegal, cross-bred cobra was a little tougher to answer.

A snake was a snake, though. After a leisurely few hours of hot chocolate and chips in the warm confines of the Three Broomsticks, which Hermione sulked through, he stopped at Diagon Alley, risking the Saturday crowds to duck into Magical Menagerie for some supplies. Then, on complete whim, he stopped in at Twilfit and Tattings.

The shop matron looked absolutely shocked to see him, but helped him well enough in picking out some sweaters, linen trousers, and even a few gauzy, blazer-cum-cardigan things he could wear around the house. The price made him cringe, but he had twice that in his pockets alone.

It wasn’t until he left that he realized she’d locked the doors after he came in, putting up the closed sign. About forty people were standing at the windows, watching him shop.

“Nearly there,” he said out loud, patting his pocket. When he got back to his house, he set his bags down and took the bubble out. It felt hard like glass, but shimmered like soap. He turned up his central heating and Levitated it to the carpet.

“ _Finite.”_

It swelled to its proper size before bursting. The snake writhed and hissed, flaring its hood and rearing back.

“It’s okay,” Harry said, and it actually calmed down. “This is where I live.”

“ _New. New smells. Smell bird.”_ It went under the coffee table, hiding.

“I have an owl,” Harry admitted, pulling the heating rock out from the Menagerie bag. “It’s not here, now, though. It can’t hurt you.”

“ _Lies.”_

“I promise.” He read the little page of instructions. It was round and ridged all over for a snake to curl up on it. When he tapped his wand and muttered the incantation, it grew to the right size and emitted a faint heat. He put it between the fireplace and a chair.

It had been a feat, avoiding the shopkeep’s questions about what sort of snake he had, but he managed. Something nudged his bare ankle, and he enjoyed a white-hot moment of panic. But the snake was only curling through his legs, toward the rock.

“We need to set some ground rules,” he decided, watching it sniff out the warmth suspiciously. “Are you venomous?”

“ _Do not know. Sister was. Brother was not.”_

“Well, regardless.” He took one of his new sweaters out, holding it against his chest and hoping it would accentuate what muscle he’d accumulated in the gym. “Have you ever bitten anyone?”

“ _Not successfully.”_

Well, that wouldn’t do. “If you’re going to stay here, you can’t ever do that. Do you understand? Not ever.”

“ _Only human? Or should I allow the bird to end my life?”_

“The bird won’t…” he sighed, dropping the sweater and pulling his hair free. “Doesn’t matter. Don’t bite anyone, okay?”

It stuck its nose up, green scales glittering against the firelight. “ _If you insist, master._ ”

“Alright. Great. Do you have a name?”

“ _Mother named me for the plant that blooms red and stings.”_

“Erm. I’m Harry.”

He put his things away, stored the snake’s things in an empty cabinet, and made dinner. It had been an uneventful week. Wednesday was spent with Victoire, and Fleur had even hung around in the afternoon. They bundled the baby up in a tiny coat and earmuffs, watching her walk around what little yard he had. Harry liked Fleur – she was opinionated, but funny and always kind to him.

Hermione had been to Grimmauld Place twice. He didn’t know what they did over there, but the curiosity was killing him. Draco wanted nothing to do with him, though, so he tried to forget it.

It was a sick irony that being Harry Potter could open every door except the one he most wanted to see behind.

He spent the afternoon deep in his copy of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ , trying to identify a plant that bloomed red and stung.

_____________________

Harry spent Sunday morning talking to his snake (a sentence he didn’t think he could ever say with a straight face). A cursory look through the books in his office produced only one, very small entry in _Fantastical Beasts_ about boomslangs.

_Though not common in regions North of the Sahara, the Boomslang provides two staples of wizarding potions. First, the skin of a male is the key ingredient of many transformation-based potions (anything from the complex Polyjuice to the juvenile-favorite Wortcunning). Second, and most unusually with serpents, the venom of the female is toxic threefold that of the male, and often added to such potions as the Wolfsbane or Drink of Despair to increase potency. Used incorrectly, the drinker will die a slow, painful –_

He’d closed the book around then.

The snake never really spoke unless Harry asked him a direct question, happy enough to sit on his rock or near the fire. It wasn’t the most stimulating of conversation, but he figured it went above and beyond expectations as far as any animal was concerned.

“How old are you?” Harry asked, leaning over the side of the chair, his chin resting on the arm. The snake shifted his coils, uncurling from the rock and climbing the side of the chair easily. Harry inhaled and kept still.

 _“Many weeks.”_ He pushed his head along Harry’s arm, using the last foot or so of his body as leverage to curl once around his neck, solid weight draping over his shoulders. _“Much darkness. Thick gloves.”_

Harry exhaled a laugh. ‘Unsuccessful’ biting aimed at a rough handler was less worrisome than the alternative. “Are you trying to strangle me?”

“ _Should not worry. I like master. He is warm and kind.”_

“Thanks. I like you, as well.”

The scaly muscle around his neck tightened slightly as a knock sounded on the front door. Harry sat up, the end of the snake’s tail curling around his bicep for balance. “Who is it?”

“Ginny,” came the muffled reply. “And I’ll be a bloody ice sculpture if you don’t open the door!”

“Just one second!” He stood up, debating what to do with the snake.

“There’s a new person at the door,” he said quietly. “You’re not to frighten her, alright?”

“ _I cannot help if she is frightened by my beauty.”_

“You know what I mean.” Harry looked down at him. “I’m going to hold your, erm, neck. Just to make her feel better.”

The snake didn’t answer, but lifted its head and stretched to meet Harry’s hand so he could lightly grasp the scales a few inches behind its jaw, holding it around chest height. Counting to five, he pulled the door open.

Ginny had on a heavy cap identical to the one Luna had stolen, only black instead of red. Rosy cheeks and deep red lipstick made her look like a painted doll. A rather horrified doll, at least.

“New pet,” Harry explained, stepping back. She didn’t move until he was all the way back in the sitting room, shutting the door and pulling the hat off.

“That pet wants to _eat_ me, Harry.”

“No, he doesn’t. What are you doing here?”

She made a fluttering motion with her hands that indicated this was all too much to deal with, pulling off her gloves and throwing them on the table, giving Harry a wide berth. He tentatively let go of the snake’s head, letting him bob around to try and smell her. Ginny examined him from a distance, one hand on her hip. Not as angry as Hermione, and not as eager to disengage as Ron.

“I was in London with some teammates,” she said. He raised his eyebrows – she wasn’t even going to _ask?_ “Thought I’d come hang out for a bit before we Floo to Mum’s for dinner. You look spiffy.”

He looked down at his cardigan. “Thank you.”

“Mmhm.” She tilted her head toward the kitchen. “I’m half-drunk and starved. Do you have any Kraken Krisps?”

“Be my guest.” He carefully lifted the snake and set it down. “Stay on your rock, okay?”

“ _My rock,”_ the snake repeated. Harry didn’t know if that was an agreement or not.

“It’s so freaky to hear you do that.”

“What does it sound like?”

She picked through his fridge. “A mad bunch of hissing. Did you know I used to buy all your groceries?”

He blinked, then shook his head. She hoisted herself onto a countertop, crossing her ankles and watching him over the top of a bottle of muggle iced tea. Silence was a new addition to their dynamic - they usually had more to talk about. There was never silence at the Burrow.

“What were you doing in the city?”

“One of my teammates needed new gloves. We shop at Side Ward over by Bond. I saw you did some shopping, as well.” She kicked out with one foot, rocking the bin back and forth. His shopping bags from the day before stuck out from the top.

“I needed some things, for the snake.”

Her red lips parted in a teasing smile. “From Twilfit’s?”

“And myself,” he relucted. “I rather hate my wardrobe.”

“ _Wow._ ” Ginny leaned forward, rocked back, then hopped to her feet. “Show me.”

She seemed comfortable in his house, taking the stairs two at a time and sitting cross-legged on his bed while he pulled out his newest buys. There was some light criticism, which he didn’t take as hard as he probably should have. The whole point was that _he_ liked what he bought.

“Just let me know the next time you go,” she said, frowning at black pair of socks. “There are places to get clothes that are less hideously expensive than Twilfit’s.”

“I have all his money,” Harry muttered.

“What did you say?” Ginny asked, her expression going even darker. “ _His_ money?”

“Er, yeah.” He folded the navy pants back and shoved them in a drawer. “You know what I mean.”

“Not really. Like it or not, you _are_ ‘him’.”

He rolled his eyes at the finger quotes. “Mmhm.”

Belatedly, she chuckled, pointing to the checkered v-neck. “Wear this one tonight. The cardigan’ll go with it.” She made a show of looking at his bum. “Are those trousers new or old?”

“Old,” he said, turning away as he re-dressed.

“Well, they’re fine, for tonight.” There was a creaking sound. When he turned back round she was laying back on his pillows, arms spread. “You didn’t go to the Appleby game.”

“How’d you know?” He folded the shirt that had been vetoed and shoved it into a drawer.

“It would have made the papers. I hope you gave the tickets to someone who’d enjoy them.”

“I did.” He sat at the edge of the mattress, propping one leg up. “Dean and Seamus.”

“Good choice. I heard Ballycastle’s Keeper lost eight teeth. Played the whole second half spitting blood, and _still_ caught that last spin-kick from Deveny.”

He countered that with a re-cap of the (fortunately less gruesome) Hogwarts game. She gasped at all the right places, sitting up in attention. Her eyes went wide every time she smiled, hands sweeping through her hair or winding together under her knees. Ginny was comforting. Ginny was like…a well-placed fern. She brought the whole room together.

 _Merlin,_ he thought, as she laughed at a very bad joke. _She’d hex my bollocks off for saying that. Even_ thinking _it._

“Come on.” She finished off the tea and Vanished the bottle. “Mum’ll have kittens when we show up together.”

Harry froze at the doorway. “What do you mean?”

She turned on the top step, laughing at his expression. “I’m joking, Harry. You know…” the laughter fell away, remaining only in her eyes. “We broke up a _long_ time ago. Mum knows that.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“So what’s bothering you? It’s not the papers, is it? The last article on you was, what, a week ago?”

“There’s nothing bothering me,” he said, too defensively. “Nothing like that, anyway.”

“Well.” She glanced down at his clothes. “If I didn’t know better, I might believe them.”

He gawked. “That I have a secret lover in the Ministry?”

“That you have a secret.”

She was teasing, he knew, but it was still a bit on-the-nose. “You know my secret.”

“So I do,” she shrugged, plodding down the stairs. “I’ve just waited _ages_ for you to buy new clothes.”

________________________

Hermione was watching him. At the Weasleys’ that Sunday, she was at his shoulder or just across the room, barely speaking unless spoken to. Twice that week, she came to his house – despite the snake that so clearly terrified her – under the guise of bringing food or just sitting. It was driving him spare.

Ron didn’t seem capable of acting anything less than completely normal. Which meant she wasn’t telling him whatever it was that scared her. Harry held firm to his policy of simply not asking.

Neville, finally, helped him with the mystery of the snake’s name. Harry owled him at Hermione’s suggestion, making the snake describe it as best he could. Neville said it sounded like Castor bean. A leafy plant with red bark and prickly burrs.

“Castor _,”_ Harry told the snake late on Wednesday. “That’s what we call it. So I’m gonna call you Castor."

“ _It matters little.”_

Harry ignored him. “And you need to stop hiding in my bedroom. I don’t want you sleeping in my bed.”

“ _I only need warmth to live,”_ Castor pointed out, flicking a tongue against Harry’s cheek.

“It’s plenty warm down here. I don’t need to die a slow, painful death because I rolled on top of you and you bit me.”

“ _Would not bite. Am stronger than you.”_

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry left him to it. It was French dip tonight, or at least an attempt. One of Molly’s recipe cards was propped against the loaf of bread. It was a bit wonky, trying to figure out the right spells for mincing thyme. Severing spells were too wide and aimless. The same Trimming charm he used on his beard worked much better.

Halfway through it, he heard the tell-tale rustle of Floo flames, and then there was a hoarse cry. He suspended the magic and rushed to the front room. “Ron?”

“ _Shall I attack, master?”_ Castor swayed at his full height, nearly three feet off the ground and waist-high with a terrified Draco Malfoy. “ _This one smells of Darkness.”_

“ _No!”_ Harry said quickly. Castor murmured his assent, but didn’t back down.

Draco looked petrified, arms splayed out, chest heaving.

“Get down,” Harry said. Draco’s eyes flicked to him for less than a second before carefully tracking the snake’s movements as it wound around Harry’s bare feet. Harry wasn’t wearing a shirt. Not that it mattered. Not that it _should_ matter…

Draco wouldn’t just show up. Hermione had fixed the Floo, so now Harry could safely use it to go places. But the only exit from Grimmauld was still here, and Draco knew that. It must be some kind of emergency.

“What happened?” Harry asked. Draco jumped when he spoke, the dark purple rings beneath his eyes making him appear even cagier than was obvious. “Where’s your wand?”

His eyes went even wider as he felt at the pockets of his sweatpants, a black shirt stretching tight over his chest in the process. “ _Shit.”_

“Draco – “

“I – I was sitting in the parlor,” he said, too fast. “The curtains opened themselves and I…I saw… _why the fuck do you have a serpent?”_

“Pet,” Harry said, almost glad Draco didn’t have his wand. The way he looked at Castor made Harry sure he would have fired and asked questions later. “What did you see? Was there someone in the house?”

“No. No.” Draco blinked furiously, and his breaths were growing less even. “The curtains opened themselves. There was a man on the street. Muggle clothes.”

“A man.”

“He was looking directly at the house.”

The Fidelus charm was less than secure, but the list of people who knew the address was relatively low. “Did you recognize him?”

“No. But I know it was him.”

“Dolohov?”

Draco nodded tightly. The lack of composure was startling. Harry looked down at his wand, unsure how to proceed. “He wouldn’t be able to get inside. Did he see you?”

“I can’t be certain. Maybe.” He sounded half-strangled. Rattled. It wasn’t just the snake he was scared of.

“I can’t produce a Patronus. I’ll Floo to Ron’s and wake them – “

“Don’t,” Draco shut his eyes, “do that. He’ll be long gone.”

“They’ll want to know – “

“I don’t know why I – I shouldn’t have come here.” Draco turned and started looking for Floo powder. Harry saw his hands were shaking.

“Stay,” he said. Draco fixed him with a furious glare. But Harry knew he was afraid. Terrified, even, at the mere thought of Dolohov near the house. “You can sleep here. I’ll have Hermione double-check the wards tomorrow.”

Something almost – _almost_ – relieved passed through Draco’s posture, then he glanced at the snake and shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

His hands were still shaking. Harry came to an abrupt, reckless decision. “Then I’ll stay there.”

Draco tried to cover up surprise with an angry sneer. “I don’t need watching after.”

“Too bad.” Harry bent and let Castor wind up his arm, helping the main bulk of his body curl around his shoulders. Draco’s eyes narrowed and he stepped more fully out of the hearth. So the big Slytherin himself was scared of snakes. “You can go now, or you can wait for me to finish dinner and I’ll go with you. Have you eaten.”

The last bit came out more forcefully than hospitably. Draco looked shell-shocked. “I have.”

“Then I’ll make tea. Kitchen’s this way.”

By some miracle, he didn’t argue. Harry went about starting a kettle and finishing the soup, pushing Castor’s face away from the steam every few seconds. “What was it?”

“Pardon?”

“Where did you eat? Could he have seen you leave the house?”

“I haven’t left the house in two weeks. I only went to collect some things from Pansy. That was the end of it.”

If Dolohov had seen him then, it meant he’d been in London for a while. Wearing a different face. Harry had been out, a lot. He’d never been attacked, or even noticed anyone watching him the wrong way on muggle streets.

“Who’s Pansy?” He asked, which was not the most salient issue.

“ _Darkness,”_ Castor hissed. Harry rolled his eyes, but appreciated the warning.

“Pansy Parkinson.”

The person he’d been staying with. Harry wondered if he had a more permanent residence somewhere, or if he just hopped from safehouse to safehouse. There was always the family’s estate Harry had heard about.

He turned and set Draco’s tea down, amused at how he leaned away.

“He won’t bite,” Harry promised. “I’ve told him not to.”

“How incredibly reassuring,” Draco snapped, scrunching his nose at the steam rising from his mug.

Harry replaced Castor in the sitting room, instructed him to stay put, and sat across from Draco with his food. He was watched with dark, confused eyes as he took his first bite. Too late to wish he’d cooked something less pungent.

“Granger mentioned…” Harry looked up. Draco willingly speaking to him was new, and welcome. Even if he seemed unable to look Harry in the eye. “You attended the Hogwarts game this weekend.”

It obviously pained him to sound curious instead of hateful.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Slytherin won, but both teams were really good. You played Seeker, didn’t you?”

Draco frowned, at the question or the taste of the tea.

Harry finished eating and hurried to clean up. There was a burning, prickling sensation across the back of his neck, even when he went upstairs to fetch a jumper. “Ready?”

Castor remained on his rock, flaring his hood toward the kitchen, eyes focused on the intruder. But the intruder was focused on something else.

“That’s my son,” Harry said, standing in the entry way. Draco set the frame down very quickly, on the edge of the table where he’d found it.

“I know.”

“I’ll be gone for the night,” Harry said. Castor managed to look displeased, but nodded his head up and down. “If anyone else comes through the fireplace, just ignore them.” Not that that should be a problem. Ron and Hermione knew to expect him. George…well, at the very least a good scare would do him good. But Harry would be back early.

“What are you telling it?” Draco asked suspiciously, creeping out of the kitchen.

“To go for your ankles, not your jugular.”

The look on his face was honestly hilarious. Harry laughed without meaning to, which made Draco go sheet-white, for some reason. “I’m joking. I was just telling him I’ll be out for the night.”

“I didn’t ask you to – “

“I’ll go first,” Harry said, ignoring the really very fetching spots of color on Draco’s cheeks. “Since I’ve got my wand.”

Grimmauld Place’s parlor was silent. Harry went straight to the door, listening intently before pulling it open and standing in the hall. The torches flickered with their usual ennui.

“ _Homenum Revelio.”_

When nothing revealed itself, he walked backwards and shut the door. Draco was looking around the floor almost frantically. Trying to help, Harry opened his mouth to _accio_. The wand flew over from behind a couch leg and landed neatly in his waiting palm.

Warmth burst up his forearm, all the way to his shoulder. The wand – less stylized than his own and quite unassuming – knew him. It knew him very well. He hadn’t even needed to cast the spell before it went to him.

Draco started to shake his head, then went frustratingly blank. It was a well-practiced sort of blankness, borne of years and years of hard work. He held out his hand, and Harry tossed the wand through the air. He caught it easily, using it to pull aside the curtain just a few inches. Golden street-light shone in a line over his face. Harry filed it all away. Later. He would ask, but it wouldn’t be tonight.

“Anything?”

“No,” Draco said evenly. “No one.”

“You’re certain he was looking at this house?”

“If he wasn’t, the curtains wouldn’t have opened.”

“Erm. Right.” Harry brought up the wards, walking in a circle and doing everything Hermione had showed him. It looked the same as he remembered, but he didn’t want to mess with them. Better to let Hermione do that part.

“This room is spotless,” he said, with a touch of incredulity, walking behind a couch. The fabric was ancient and colorless before. Now it sparkled in powder-blue jacquard. The rug no longer frayed at the edges. “I bet all the others are, as well.”

“Are you accusing me of something?” Draco asked drily from the floor. He leaned forward to prod the cauldron with his wand. It was back to a muddy red color, the acrid smell only barely noticeable. As he moved, a small strip of skin showed above the waistband of his sweatpants. _Too skinny_ , Harry thought in Molly’s voice. It didn’t make it any easier to tear his eyes away.

“If it eases your mind, Potter, I can assure you I haven’t been scrubbing floors and mending walls.” He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around. It made him look even more painfully thin. “It’s the house.”

Harry shifted uneasily. “Talking to snakes, I can only just get my head around. A _house_ , on the other hand – “

Draco rolled his eyes, but it wasn’t entirely unkind. “Granger asked me about it, as well. I wouldn’t expect anyone but a pureblood to have lived in a house this old. They develop a consciousness, of sorts, over the centuries.”

“You’re saying the house cleaned itself?”

“Without a House Elf around, I think it had to improvise.”

“There used to be an Elf. His name was Kreacher.” Harry looked up at the flawlessly white ceiling. “It still looked like a dump in the pictures.”

“That’s primogeniture for you,” Draco sighed.

“What?”

After a silent moment, he raised a hand (steady, now) and pointed to the wall behind Harry’s head. The tapestry wall. “How closely have you looked at that?”

The flickering fire light wasn’t good enough. Harry had to squint and cast a _lumos_ to read the words near the ceiling.

“ _The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black”._

The first dates were from the mid-to-late nineteenth century. On the topmost row of the tree, the forth sibling’s name had been burned away. There were several other such marks – cigarettes, maybe. If wizards even smoked those. More likely they’d been burned off by a well-placed hex.

“Isla Black,” Draco said, suddenly beside him. He cast his own _lumos,_ adding enough light for Harry to stop squinting _._ “The family had a habit of disowning people, as you can see. Anyone who failed to display the most _correct_ judgement. She married a muggle, for example.”

He lowered his wand to the next row, stepping far to the left to bring the next burn mark into view, between Sirius (a different one – the dates didn’t match up) and Cygnus. “Phineas the junior. He supported muggle rights.”

“And that was enough to – ?”

“Yes. As was being born a squib.” He tapped lightly over the black mark between Cassiopeia and Dorea, moving closer to Harry to point to another. “Cedrella. Married a Weasley.”

A step to the left. “Alphard Black. He gave gold to the runaway nephew.” The tip of his wand slid down a bracket. “Sirius Black.”

And next to that, Regulus. “How do you know – ?”

“One more,” Draco said, nodding to the last mark. Harry turned forward and held his wand light lower.

“Andromeda Black.” Andromeda, sister of Narcissa, who was married to Lucius _Malfoy._ Underneath the two of them, in the same thin banner script as all the other names, was Draco’s name. That made him Sirius’…first cousin removed?

“The tree stops whenever a name is burned,” Draco was saying, still on Andromeda’s name. “Had it continued, you would see her muggle husband, Edward Tonks.”

“Teddy’s grandfather,” Harry murmured, shocked again. He reached out, feeling along the blasted, torn wallpaper. The house was fixing itself, yet these remained. “I didn’t know you were related. I didn’t know he had any family left.”

“Dear Great Aunt Walburga,” Draco continued, rather forcefully. “Would have surely burned my mother’s name off by now. Things as they are, this house considers me the true heir to the property.”

“You’re the eldest son,” Harry said. That’s what primogeniture meant. But wizarding society didn’t work that way anymore.

“It’s not only that.” He raised his wand again, looking up at the topmost row of his ancestors. “Those that pass their lives in houses like this leave something of themselves behind. Even with a House Elf, this kind of repair is…exceptional.”

Teddy hadn’t really reacted when hearing Draco’s name. He seemed curious, but that was it. How much did he know? Did they even _teach_ things like pureblood ideology at Hogwarts?

“I should be thanking you,” Draco said, just on this side of too wry to be sincere. His mouth twisted in another empty smile. “This is perhaps the only wizarding home in London that would welcome me.”

Without a word, he held out his left arm and pulled up his sleeve. Harry tensed, unsure of what was happening until the edges of a tattoo appeared. So _that’s_ what the Mark was. He didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t all that evil-looking.

The design went all the way up to the inner crease of his elbow; a snake twisting out of the mouth of a skull, in lines of heavy black ink. Aged, but not necessarily faded.

“Because of this,” Draco said. His eyes were molten in the wandlight, bright and dark at the same time. Harry swallowed, resisting the urge to touch it. That would be pushing his luck.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not for years. Not since you killed him.”

Harry blinked, only mildly shocked to hear something like that. Hermione always put it much more judiciously. Harry _dueled_ Voldemort, or _battled_ him. The word ‘kill’ was rarely attributed to what he’d done.

“I expect it to get worse the closer we come to the Quiet Moon,” he continued, with a grimace that hollowed out his cheeks and made his eyes more shadowed. The Mark disappeared beneath his sleeve as he tugged it back down. “Nature won’t take kindly to what I’m doing.”

“Quiet Moon?”

“January.” He stepped back. “The last lunar cycle for this potion.”

The ingredients had been re-organized since Harry was last there, stacked and gathered in piles that formed a circle. All in easy reach for someone who spent all their time crouched over the cauldron on the hard floor.

Silence lapsed. Draco had his head stuck in a book, and Harry wished he’d brought something to do. It wasn’t late enough to try and sleep. He watched the fire for a few long minutes, then chanced a look at Draco. The stopwatch had gone off just moments ago, making them both jump, and now he was carefully doling out half-teaspoons of liquid toadstool.

“Draco?”

At the sound of his name, Draco’s hand spasmed. The measuring spoon glanced off the side of the cauldron and fell to the carpet, bleeding indigo into the threads. He cursed and cleaned it away with a spell, writing something down on parchment and re-filling the spoon in quick succession.

“ _What?”_

“I was just gonna ask if you could give me your least boring book.”

Draco blinked, some of the sharpest edges of irritation falling away. “Oh. Here.”

“ _The Moon and You,”_ Harry read aloud. “Is this a bedtime story?”

“In this case.”

Harry gave him a look. “I’m not going to sleep. No offense, but you look like you need it much more than I do.”

“I – “ Draco touched the skin under his eye, then sniffed. “I have a natural predisposition to looking ill. Nothing for it.”

Despite Harry’s joke, the book looked very serious. It was relatively thin, but words were packed densely onto each page wherever there wasn’t a spindly diagram to look at. If this was the _least_ boring, then Draco and Hermione should get along very well.

“I mean it,” Harry sat back on the sofa, putting his feet up. “I’ll stay up.”

The look Draco gave him was highly annoyed. “And you’ll tend to the potion? It has to be stirred every other hour.”

“That often?” Harry asked.

“Only on clear nights.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

Draco looked meaningfully at the book. Harry frowned. “It was rhetorical. You’re the last person I would let near this potion.”

“Because I’m shite at it.”

“You were,” Draco allowed, dropping a dark stone into the cauldron. The potion was back to a muddy red color, the smell only barely noticeable. “Too impatient.”

“Practice makes perfect.”

“Practice all you like,” he said blandly. “Stay away from this one.”

Harry got through one page on libration before his eyes unfocused. Practice. “How much of the day do you work on that thing?”

“All of it.”

The sofa didn’t even creak as he sat up. “Have you ever made antivenom?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earthshine: Sunlight reflected by Earth that makes the otherwise dark part of the Moon glow faintly. It’s especially obvious during the Moon’s thin crescent phases.


	7. The Pegasus and the Centaur

It started out soft and gentle, a ripple over still waters. A gasp of pleasure turned pain; perfect and sour. A hand, a flame, and someone weeping from the bottom of their stomach. Confrontation that ends in blood and a misplaced spell.

_Remember._

The ripples grew larger, grew agitated. Soreness erupted in Harry’s neck, insidious things shifting beneath the muscle. There hadn’t been light to begin with, but it grew even darker as he squirmed. Pain in his temples. Pressure. A hand. A flame. The darkness flooded, permeating past a simple beast of vision, crushing his insides and blocking his lungs. Like a swarm of mice, it chewed and gnawed its way through him, breaking with sharp teeth what wouldn’t give easily. Remember, the voice said. A strange request, in this strange place.

_Who is Tom Riddle?_

Like jumping, or being pushed. Whether it was a choice or not, gravity took what it was owed. Yes, falling. Something was falling from such a great height. It would never come back as a whole. Only as a piece. A fracture. A stunning explosion. Ice-blue eyes that lied. Always lying.

_Imperius. Cruciatus, and…and…_

The burst of light was green, but couldn’t be reduced to a light spectrum. Not even just pain. It left _him_ fractured. Him, and everything he was. There was a scream, some time, and a gasp. A clean sound. Pleasure turned pain.

_I know what you’re planning. Next week. Don’t._

Hands. Tendons and skin pulled taut with the effort of what they held. Veins struck out too prominently. When they twisted, straining to break the thing between them, joints groaned like a moored ship. Knuckles broke through the tender wrapping of flesh, spraying blood. Then, a clock in reverse, the hands were healed. This time, the ear of corn cracked with a neat, dry rasp. A thousand breaths in the darkness rushed toward him.

_You’ll make me late for Arithmancy..._

_...Just got back from Inverness…_

_...Would you like us to clean out your ears for you?..._

_…and unless I do it soon…he says he’ll kill me…_

_No,_ he thought to the hundreds of voices, _slow down!_ It was overwhelming, sending the darkness spiraling deeper into his lungs. Something was about to burst, and he wouldn’t survive it. Not as he was now. The voices persisted, growing in volume and speed. Stones whipping against glass that was slowly cracking. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t answer them, he couldn’t – 

“Potter!”

Harry gasped awake, sitting up so fast his shoulder protested loud and clear. A matching pain shot through his ankle. He sucked in sweet air, lungful after lungful.

“You were having a nightmare.”

He was surprised to hear Draco’s voice, and for a disorienting second did not know if he was awake or not. Then his shoulder throbbed again, and the dregs of the dream slipped away on a tide of reality. Something important had already been forgotten.

Harry looked at the fading red welt on his ankle. He’d been Stung awake.

Draco sat on the other sofa, leaning forward like a perched bird, eyes wide and staring in a way that suggested sleep had never come. Light still came predominantly from the fire, but the curtains behind Harry let in the faintest bit of morning at their edges.

“Did I say anything?” Harry asked, hoping for a clue. Draco shook his head. “You stayed up all night.” He was still too foggy to control his tone, so it came out as a sharp accusation.

“Work to do," Draco intoned. He had the stopwatch in his hand, clutched next to his wand. There were tiny, empty vials on the cushion next to him, rolled toward the dip of his weight. Probably a keep awake potion, but far too many to be good. And it clearly didn’t contain Rejuvenating properties because Draco looked utterly exhausted.

The potion in the cauldron had changed color since the night before. It was beige, now, and very thick looking, churning itself without being stirred. “You should have woken me up,” Harry said. “I came here to keep watch.”

Draco gazed levelly at him, until he actually had to resist the urge to squirm. The stopwatch saved him, dinging tinnily. Draco clicked it off and slid back to the floor.

While he messed with the potion, Harry went to the window, rolling his shoulder. Not quite sunrise, but night was lifting. Ron wouldn’t be awake for at least an hour.

“Is there food in the kitchen?”

No answer. Draco’s quill scratched jerkily around, his shoulders hunched forward. Harry wondered if his presence had helped at all, or if it would have been like this anyway.

The massive amounts of photographs taken inside Grimmauld Place meant he was somewhat familiar with the kitchen, despite this being his first time actually inside. The long wooden table was the most recognizable feature, but it was empty. No Weasleys or piles of food or Wizard Chess boards.

There were other differences, of course. The house was renovating itself, so the formerly battered surface of the table was spotless and buffed, reflecting shades of crimson from the wallpaper. The china on the tallest shelves shone green and silver.

Not just any green, and not your run-of-the-mill silver. They were exactly Slytherin’s colors. 

He found it ridiculous that their old school houses could have such an impact on their lives. Ron and his family obviously favored Gryffindor colors (which could be excused, as their collective ginger really limited the available clothing options). Harry owned more red and maroon than any brown man ought to, and this house! Along with the china, it all screamed Slytherin. There were other colors, yes. Quite an array. But with notable absences. The reds were either dull (like the Persian bedspread on one of the guest rooms he’d looked into) or bright (the kitchen walls). Never exactly maroon. The blues, and there were a lot of them, were powdery. Never quite Ravenclaw’s electric turquoise. Conscious decisions made, at some point, by one of Draco’s ancestors. And Teddy’s, he realized as an afterthought.

The Slytherin leanings echoed the aristocracy bleeding from every room. The chaise lounges and ornate mirrors. The art must have been nice, as well, but since it was all removed he guessed they weren’t the kindest of portraits. And the kitchen was built for magical cooking, which meant no cutting boards, stovetops, or even an icebox. Harry was at a disadvantage. Whatever little knowledge he must have had about this stuff had been wiped away.

The first place he looked was in the bread box. There was a white loaf inside, fresh despite the lack of packaging.

If one compartment was magicked, perhaps the other variously-shaped cabinets were, as well. Maybe one of them even had…jam. Perfect. Unmarked, which was strange, and cold to the touch. There was a box of tea nestled right next to it, and both smelled of strawberry.

He Levitated a china plate down, uncaring of its age or fragility. A Scalding Hex overdid the toast by just a hair, but the jam covered the worst of the burned spots. The smell was sweet and sugary, promising to sit heavy on the back of his tongue after eating. The next drawer he tried had one of each utensil (three spoons, technically, but all different sizes and therefore brushed off as rich persons nonsense). He steeped the tea in two silver mugs, glancing nosily through the rest of the pantry. Empty. All of it.

“No wonder he looks so peaky,” Harry muttered to himself, knocking a door shut with his knee. Bread and jam only? Even he, pre-memory loss and mired in deep depression, kept better grocery than that.

For a tray, he picked up something long and flat that leaned on the top of a Baker’s rack. It, too, looked priceless, made of gilded gold and adorned with twisting, balustrade strips of iron. More of a torture device than a breakfast apparatus. He turned to start loading the mugs, realizing he wasn’t alone. A burning pulse of adrenaline nearly had him grabbing at his wand. Draco was so quiet – and it was of no help how skeletal he looked in the harsh light.

He took a step forward, leaning just slightly over the other side of the table to examine the array of breakfast. It was really only then, when it was all under those supercilious eyes, that Harry realized he had made _two_ cuppas without thinking.

“That’s all?” Draco asked. He sounded amused, which put Harry on his guard. 

“It’s…all you had.”

“No.” He walked around the long table, hands in his pockets as he turned to shuffle past Harry in the limited space. “It’s all you asked for.”

As he went, the air stirred with Sandalwood and grapefruit. Harry dropped his gaze and cleared his throat, wishing there was anything about Draco his brain didn’t immediately fixate on. 

He had changed clothes. The plain black shirt had been swapped for an identical one in deep olive, tucked into trousers that tapered at the ankles. Checkered socks and strange, flat shoes with dull finish. The grandeur of it made his face appear all the more ghostly, and the snug fabrics drew out his thinness.

“I did ask,” Harry said. “You ignored me.”

Which Draco did again, reaching down into one of the empty cabinets and producing a heavy cast iron skillet that _definitely_ hadn’t been there a few moments before. He set it down on a blank spot of counter and reached up, into another empty compartment. Out of that came a basket of eggs. An actual _basket._

“How are you doing that?” Harry asked curiously, looking for the trick. Conjuring food was difficult enough; without wand or incantation, it was impossible.

“I asked for it,” he said simply, balancing two eggs in one hand and shifting so Harry could watch as he let them go about a foot over the pan. Instead of smashing down in a mess of shell and yolk, they hovered in place. Harry felt Draco watching him, but found himself transfixed as both eggs were cleaved in two by an invisible blow. The insides slid neatly into the basin, instantly popping and sizzling as though the pan had been heating up over flame this entire time.

Draco did raise his wand, finally, to draw down another china plate. While Harry adjusted his weird-ometer (George would be hard-pressed to best this one), he moved close again, sitting on the long bench. The eggs didn’t need any assistance, it seemed. After a moment of watching them move around on their own, Harry sat down, too. “What else can it do?” He asked.

“A very dry porridge.” Draco took one of the mugs and held it between his hands. “Half-turned palourdes. An attempt at sausages, though I’m not certain it was giving me actual meat.”

Harry almost wasn’t prepared for such a long answer, even though it really wasn’t that much. Draco had been talkative these past twenty-four hours. “Cursebreaking must be a lonely job.”

“Pardon?” Draco asked, sharply.

“Just making conversation.”

He frowned at Harry, wary and disdainful somehow at the same time. Even exhausted as he was, there was a pearly sheen to his skin and a brightness to his eyes that never seemed to fade or change.

“It is,” he said, clearing his throat. “It can take months, at times.”

“And what do you do, after?”

His eyebrows pulled together, less annoyed now and more uncomfortable. Harry was glad to not be the only one, for once.

“It’s necessary for me to...rest...between houses. I don’t always, but it’s not like cursebreaking a castle, or a pyramid. These places were designed to keep people like me safe, so they tend to punish me for breaking the wards back down.”

“People like you?”

Draco blinked, and then sighed. “Death Eaters.”

“Right.” Harry felt stupid. “That’s why you didn’t take me into that house, the night I lost my memory. Because I don’t have the Mark?”

“Correct.”

“How far along were you?”

“A week,” he answered, with a different intonation. Like he thought Harry should already have known that. He raised the mug to his mouth. “Wasted time.”

“Will you have to start over, when you go back?”

Draco swallowed, staring straight ahead with the mug still raised in front of his face. After a long moment, he took a sip.

“How do you usually take tea?”

“What?” He had just been wrinkling his nose again, a childish expression of distaste.

“Last night I added sugar, today it’s plain. You seem disgusted by both.”

Draco looked down at the tea like he was seeing it for the first time, then back up at Harry, eyes tracking over his face like he was searching for something. “That…” he said slowly, “is an exceedingly personal question.”

Something in his eyes – though it was very subtle – tipped Harry off. Draco was _joking_. And it wasn’t particularly funny, but Harry laughed anyway. Like everyone else, Draco seemed shocked by that. Much more than shocked - astonished.

A shadow passed over them as the pan floated overhead and down, hovering above the empty plate and flipping the eggs once before dumping them down. It smelled incredible.

Draco pushed it his way immediately. “You eat it.”

Harry did. The eggs were hot, and crunched between his teeth in an interesting way. It wasn’t at all perfect; the middle was liquid, like they’d been cooked too fast over a very high temperature. Better luck next time, house.

The toast stayed between them, but Draco didn’t touch it. Maybe it would be too much like they were having breakfast together, instead of just drinking tea together. Which was already probably strange enough. Harry was his enemy, after all.

______________________

“It’s undisturbed,” Hermione announced, echoing Harry’s ward inspection from the night before. He had interrupted them getting ready for work, so she was in house shoes and a satiny headwrap. “I doubt he would be reckless enough to have tried it, anyway.”

Ron had taken more time to finish getting dressed. He stood at the parlor window, glaring out at the street like Dolohov would be back any second. “I can’t believe he’s in London. Especially now.”

Harry joined him there. It was still early, but the sun was climbing higher, casting long shadows down the empty square. “It’s London. He can hide in plain sight.”

Ron lowered his voice, pressing his shoulder to Harry’s like he wanted to hide their conversation from prying ears. “There’s nowhere to go. _Every_ public space in wizarding London has wards out for Dark Marks. They trip alarms, trigger Floo and Apparition closures. Even private homes have heightened protections – like the Burrow. There’s no way he could walk into Diagon Alley without someone noticing.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder. Draco stood against the far wall, arms crossed, chin askew like all of this was far beneath him. He hadn’t had any trouble Flooing to Harry’s, though certainly his house had wards up that would notice a Dark Mark.

“And we have wanted posters all over,” Ron said. “Everyone knows what Dolohov and Macnair look like.”

“Draco said he didn’t look like himself.”

“Exactly. How did he get ingredients for Polyjuice? It’s not a simple potion.”

Harry shrugged. “There are other ways to change your appearance. Without magic, even.”

Ron gave him an uncomprehending frown.

“Muggle ways,” Harry clarified. “I dunno…prosthetics. Make up. Plastic surgery.”

“Proth…setics?”

“You could be right, Harry,” Hermione cut in, wedging between them. “Though it’s much easier to believe he’s had help.”

Ron glanced at Draco. Hermione wasn’t bothering to whisper. “It’d be hard to prove. Not very many pureblood families actually live in London.”

“You think they’d be…harboring him?” Harry asked.

“They wouldn’t,” Draco called.

“And how do you know? Your mummy still friendly with all the sympathizers?” Ron said snidely, not missing a beat. “That really warms my heart.”

“She’s not.” In the time it took Harry to go bring Ron and Hermione back through both his fireplace and this one, Draco had donned robes. They swished impressively as he uncrossed his arms. “None of them are. There’s no trust left between the families after they sold each other out to the Ministry.”

“Trust,” Ron said, disbelief thick in his voice. “I imagine.”

Draco’s eyebrows pinched high. “To your knowledge, he hasn’t been near London for at least eight years. Right?”

“Yes.”

“You stopped looking for him. Now he’s here. It’s not a coincidence.”

Ron had a hard look to his face, but not an angry one. Hermione was trying to examine Harry from the corner of her eye, which he was of course growing used to.

“You think he knows we’re making a move?” Ron asked, and it only kind of sounded like an accusation.

Draco shook his head regretfully. “I was in the _Prophet_. After our second meeting.”

“Of course,” Hermione murmured.

“You were?” Harry asked a little too sharply. It was just – he had been reading the _Prophet_ semi-regularly and semi-thoroughly. Draco’s name would have stuck out. Ridiculously, his brain spun the possibility that the newspaper had set their sights on Draco as another one of Harry’s ‘possible paramours’. A bloody ridiculous thought.

“The hallway,” he realized. All those people had seen the two of them arguing. Well, they had seen Harry being argued at.

Draco nodded. “According to the paper, I’ve been stirring up trouble in the government. But Dolohov _is_ capable of reading between the lines. He knows I generally...don’t cause trouble.”

Ron made a frustrated noise, turning back to the window. “There’s no way he could know. You and Harry are always going at each other. What’s different?”

Draco met Harry’s eyes. “If he did see me here last night...in _this_ house…”

“Do you think he could guess what it is you’re doing for us? _Anima Nectere?_ ” Hermione asked. “I mean, the materials we’ve pulled for you could be tracked through library logs, but no institution would allow him to view – “

“Not now, no, but before?” Draco moved his arms again, holding an elbow in one hand and splaying the other out in the air as he talked. “I’ll agree it’s unlikely. The Dark Lord wouldn’t have taken kindly to us prying about the Mark and its magic. But just because they never spoke about it around me doesn’t mean they didn’t have an idea. Dolohov was there at the beginning.”

“It’s not like he could stop you,” Ron said. “Right? Is there something he could do to…prevent it?”

Draco didn’t look so sure, but it seemed Ron’s question had a calming effect. “No. He can’t stop it.”

“Then it doesn’t matter if he knows you’re here or not. He can’t get inside.” He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Outside is where we need to be alert. Constant vigilance.”

Draco stared at him. “He’s taunting you. All of us. Your constant vigilance will only let him know he’s scared you.”

“Just stay inside,” Ron snapped. “Use the Floo if necessary, but on the off chance he _didn’t_ see you last night, make sure you stay hidden.”

Draco snorted. “Use the Floo, you say? And when I’m seen leaving _Potter’s_ house?”

Harry shouldn’t have been offended at that. It was silly. “They’re both my houses. Technically.”

“Excellent point,” Draco hissed, making Harry feel like the thickest person in the room. “I’d nearly forgotten.”

The thing was, so had Harry.

Ron rubbed his face again, thinking in that scrambled, mostly efficient way he had. “It doesn’t explain how - “

“Oh, spare us,” Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The safehouses have stores of potions. He got Polyjuice from one I haven’t cleaned out yet."

Ron’s cheekbones turned pink. “I suppose that’s a possibility.”

______________________________

A week later, Hermione was – big surprise – at Harry’s house. She came right in through the front door and set a heavy brown bag on his coffee table, breathless from the cold. 

“This Tesco’s?” Harry asked, in the middle of writing a letter to Teddy. He set the parchment and pad on the coffee table, pulling the closest paper edge down to look at the piles of crap food inside. “They have a sale on?”

She stood there with her hands on her hips, breathing hard. Normally she at least knocked, and her afternoons with him were quiet. This was something different altogether. “Where’s the snake?”

“In the bathtub.”

She didn’t ask for an explanation, glancing around the floor to make certain before taking a seat in the armchair and crossing her legs. “I need you to take that bag to Draco.”

“Why?”

“He said he doesn’t need it, but I can’t risk him leaving for food.”

“And what about the risk you took?” Harry had been significantly limiting his time spent outdoors. He wasn’t scared, exactly, but it was a little creepy knowing anyone on the street could be the person that killed Teddy’s father. Seeing Draco so shaken over it made him feel more inclined to take the threat seriously. 

“You heard Draco,” she sniffed. “We should go on as we were before. I can take care of myself.”

Harry focused his eyes on the fabric draped over the back of her seat. It would look like a blanket to anyone else. Ron had dropped it off a few days after the Dolohov sighting. Apparently Harry had lent it to him. The fabled Cloak of Invisibility, mentioned frequently in both Teddy’s letters and Ron’s recounting of epic Hogwarts malfeasances. 

Harry hoped he would never need it. It sort of scared him, honestly.

“There’s something else,” Hermione said, sitting forward. “I need a favor.”

He was getting awfully used to hearing that. “What is it?”

She appeared to think carefully. “You’ve befriended him.”

Harry froze, pressing the end of his pen into the parchment. She didn’t sound surprised or disgusted or anything like that, so he didn’t find it necessary to refute or agree with her claim. She must have seen his cauldron set up across from Draco’s at Grimmauld Place. While not exactly friendship, that he would voluntarily spend time over there was probably sign enough that things were very different than how they had been before.

“Which is good,” Hermione said next, looking more regretful. “I think he might trust you.”

Harry frowned, wary at that choice of phrasing. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“It’s a…marked improvement over the past, let’s say.”

“…sure.”

It was just past noon, and Hermione didn’t usually leave work so early. Unless this _was_ work.

Like she could hear what he was thinking, she suddenly looked uncomfortable. “I’ve got to ask something of you, and I’m sorry in advance, but it really must be done.”

“It’s fine. I’ll take the groceries.”

“Harry, I’m serious.” She waited until he stopped smiling. “I’ve gone over his report a thousand times. It’s perfect. Truly impressive as a proposal, as well as a work of magical theory. Honestly, he should publish it.”

“’Mione.”

“Right. Well, there’s only one discrepancy. One single citation was…incorrect.”

He bit back a remark about giving Draco B marks and having done with it. “So?”

“What I’m saying is…he _could_ do this potion twice. For some reason, though, he _won’t._ I did ask him, when I was delivering supplies yesterday. And he…he said it won’t work, because after he’s drunk the potion, their link will be forever broken.”

Harry shrugged. “That makes sense, doesn’t it? To a certain degree.”

“Yes,” she said. “To a certain degree. But just the other day, we were talking, and…”

 _You talk?_ Harry thought, wondering if it was all magical theory with those two. Did Draco make jokes with her? He waited, but she didn’t say any more. She just looked at him.

“And what?”

She exhaled and looked down. “Nothing. I looked into the citation, and…the page numbers he cited had nothing to do with what he was talking about in the prospectus. A certain aspect of the Binding process…or Unbinding, I should say. I looked it up, and a first edition of the text was taken off the market forty-five years ago. I have a good idea of where it must have ended up.”

Frustrated, Harry set the parchment down again. “I don’t follow. You think he has the first edition at the Manor?”

“I think he does,” Hermione said eagerly. “I think a first edition may have information that was taken out of the later copies. After the rise of You-Know-Who, so much information about soul magic was hidden away so people wouldn’t go looking for it. Why not this? The author could have just pulled a few pages from the manuscript so he could keep it on the shelves. I think Draco may have…fudged.”

“Fudged.”

“It’s the only mistake in the entire – “

“You checked all of his references?”

“I had an intern do it,” she said defensively. Harry didn't believe her. “But yes. One mistake. And I don’t think we can afford any mistakes.”

Mistakes. Sure. She thought Draco was lying about something important. “What can I do?”

“You can go to the Manor.”

She waved off his first argument, which was for the best because he wasn’t sure what he would have said. “I’m sorry, Harry, but you’re the only one who has a shot at this. Ron won’t be able to get a warrant, and Draco wouldn’t invite him in. I…I just don’t think I can do it.”

That last part was unusually vulnerable, spoken in a soft, almost embarrassed tone. Her fingertips scratched over the skin of her forearm, a forgotten reflex. Bad things had happened at the Manor, but she had gotten the worst of it by far. Whatever it was now, that night cemented it as an evil place. Harry was the only one for whom the memories weren’t omnipresent.

“And you think he’s going to…invite me?”

“He will,” she said with odd certainty, moving to sit next to him. “Because you’re going to tell him I need to see this.” 

She pulled a slip of paper from her coat pocket. _Psychology of a Garden Pegasus,_ it read. _Chapter Thirteen._

“Um – “

“It’s an old children’s book,” she explained. “Very rare, not seen in public since the fourteenth century. I managed to track the last known auction piece to one of his great-great-uncles. There’s a near certain chance it ended up at the Manor library, though, since the Malfoys were one of the last families to fall out of favor, I think every pureblood with illicit or valuable texts would have had them moved to the Manor to avoid the raids.

“He knows I would be interested in something like that, so he won’t ask too many questions. He also won’t wonder why I sent you by proxy.” She produced another slip of paper. “While he’s copying the chapter for me, I need you to find this book. _Hellenistic Happenstance._ The copy I did find, in the Archives, has ten chapters, and exactly five hundred pages.” It was all copied down under the title. “If his copy has any more, then I _must_ know what it says. What was taken out.”

Harry felt very out of his league. “What – haven’t you asked him about it?”

“I don’t think I’d get a very truthful answer.”

“And the next step is to…” he waved the slips of paper. “Do all of this?”

She swallowed, winding her fingers together. “This could be life or death. Can you accept that as my answer, for now?”

“Whose life?”

She swallowed. “I just need to know what’s in that book.”

Harry felt a creeping dread, but wasn’t certain which part of this was bothering him. It didn’t seem… _that_ wrong. Just duplicitous. “Ron doesn’t know about this, does he?”

“No.” She didn’t sound very put out about it.

Harry nodded. “Alright. I’ll…try. But I think he’ll see right through me.”

Hermione looked immensely relieved. “I believe in you. And here.”

She dug in her pocket before handing over a cell phone. He almost didn’t recognize it as such, because the one he already owned was so much different. His flipped open. This one was one long, smooth piece of glass. It looked a lot more breakable.

When she clicked the one visible button, the screen lit up, showing the time and date over a white background. “It’s very simple,” she explained. “The magic will keep this from making calls or connecting to the internet, but the camera should work just fine.” Her thumb pressed directly on the glass, where a small camera icon grew until the whole screen was an image of her knees and the table. She clicked a big circle near the bottom, and the image was captured.

“Wow,” he said. Wizarding cameras were much, much bulkier than this. And louder.

“Just take a picture of each page past the seventh chapter. If you can’t get it all, do your best. It’s not too enormous of a book.”

“Oh…okay. If I get that far.”

“It’s very important,” Hermione pressed, unnecessarily. “I would do it myself – “

“I know. I know you would.”

She still looked guilty. “I’m not asking you to betray his trust.”

“No. Just lie to him.” And he wasn’t even sure he had Draco’s trust, to begin with. It was more of a begrudging partnership. 

“If I’m right,” she said, and he could tell she thought the _if_ was superfluous. “Then he lied first.”

“About _what?”_

She shook her head. “I’m more concerned about the _why_.”

“You will tell me,” he said. “If I do this for you, you _will._ ”

Her nod was emphatic. “I promise.”

He resigned himself to the experience, tucking the notes away in his jeans. “Does it have to be today?”

Draco had basically told him to be scarce until the antivenom was ready for its next step on Wednesday. Two days from now.

“Whenever you’re there next is…is fine.” She slumped back, lifeless, like her work was finally done. “It’ll all be fine.”

_______________________________

It wasn’t for another two weeks that Harry felt he could go through with it. Draco’s impatient guidance in making the antivenom had been, if not chummy, entertaining. Castor was very cross about being made to bite into a thick plastic screen, shooting venom into a tiny vial. Draco had actually walked across the room to watch that from a distance.

Harry now had five tubes of crystal clear potion, guaranteed to reverse the effects of Castor’s bite. God forbid it ever happened. He felt marginally better about leaving Castor loose while Teddy was home for the holidays.

What Hermione wanted from him was less simple than brewing a five-step potion. He kept putting it off, finding other distractions. For example: there was a Weasley dinner to prepare for over the weekend. Bolstered by his success with potion-making, Harry had attempted a casserole. When Molly saw this she promptly burst into tears and spent the rest of the night forcing everyone to at least two helpings. Ron was the only one who seemed to genuinely enjoy it. Hermione and Ginny picked at it with their forks and gave him strange looks. George pretended to vomit it up when his mum wasn’t looking. 

It was the first week that no one grilled Hermione and Ron on their progress with Harry’s memories. It was the first week no one remarked on it at all.

“She always thought you hated her,” Bill remarked, sidling up next to Harry in the garden. Harry had just spent an hour Transfiguring rocks for Victoire’s amusement. Now George had her, and was dancing to the Celestina Warbeck that drifted through the open window. Fleur and Charlie hovered nearby.

“The baby?”

“No, Fleur.”

“Hated Fleur.” Harry looked up (and _up_ – Weasleys were tall). “For what?”

He shrugged, the scars on his face twisting as he laughed. “You’ve never babysat, or really talked to her at all. Until now. I told her that was just how you were. I didn’t know any different. Just what Ron and Fr – and George always told me. Now, I think I get it.”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“If you’d had a normal life,” Bill smiled. “You’d be like this all the time. Life of the party.”

At Harry’s derisive snort, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Oh yeah? Look at that?”

The rest of their Sunday party was standing around the garden gate, watching, various drinks in hand. Ron and Charlie both had beer, Arthur a pint. Molly and Ginny were loudly arguing about something while Hermione leaned against one of the posts, every blink getting longer until it seemed she’d pitch over asleep at any second. Alcohol really did her in.

“Hasn’t been like this in a long time,” Bill said, wistful. “Everyone together. _You_ haven’t been here four weekends in a row since…I dunno, forever? It makes a difference, especially to Mum and Dad.”

Harry looked away from the domesticity of it all, upset by how much he believed Bill’s words. What would this picture look like when Teddy was a part of it? He couldn’t wait to find out.

The weather dropped into cold, wet sludge and rain. Patrons of Diagon Alley cast large Umbrella Charms over their heads and bags, turning the mist into shimmering rivulets as it ran over the charm and to the ground. The goblins strode around in beautifully patterned coats and long ear jewelry that shone even in the downpour, and every now and then there were House Elves out running errands in thick knit sweaters and scarves. 

Harry watched it all from George’s flat, through the gap between the window and the shop’s neon sign. He went there often, to join George during his lunch breaks. The only other opportunity he had to get out of his house was to go to the Ministry. All there was to do there was work out with Ron or Dean or Debra in the gym facilities, or sign his name on a bunch of paperwork. Hermione hadn’t asked him to come into her Department in quite some time.

Once, he went to her and Ron’s place and cleaned while they were at work. He was frustrated at the ancient rug in his living room and how it resisted any form of upholstery charm. He half wondered what would happen if he stuck it back in Grimmauld Place, where it had come from. Would it miraculously become good as new?

Ron and Hermione’s was already very clean. He had just noticed the odd speck of dust or wayward sock under the couch. The dust was always places too high for Hermione to see and the socks were always Ron’s. He also did their dishes, and vacuumed the carpets. Hermione was extremely disturbed by this.

He kept his heating system turned up high to counteract the onset of winter. Castor still complained of cold, and became less active. Now that there was antivenom on hand, Harry stopped removing him from his bed and just slept with a giant snake half-wrapped around his calf. 

After finishing the potion and leaving the groceries, though, he didn’t really have a reason to go to Grimmauld Place. All he heard of Draco was whatever she mentioned in passing, and those conversations were dangerous because she’d just ask him if he’d brought up the library yet, and Harry kept having to tell her he hadn’t.

Finally, during a particularly boring afternoon, he decided.

The fireplace had been long fixed, so Harry had no lucky pretense for dropping in. He had half a mind to Apparate to the street and knock on the front door, but the parlor was a relatively public space, wasn’t it? It wouldn’t be like Flooing into a bedroom, for example.

Draco wasn’t in his usual spot when Harry stepped through. Instead of sitting on the floor, he was standing by the window, holding one curtain out. When he heard Harry, he let it fall, looking over his shoulder in masked surprise. “Hello,” he said. 

Harry had expected to draw Draco’s ire by showing up like this. Being _welcomed_ was so unexpected he forgot what he was going to say.

“Cabin fever?”

Draco leaned back against the wall, spinning his wand with one hand. “No more than I’m used to.” He looked at Harry’s muggle coat and boots. “Why are you here?”

“I could use some fresh air,” Harry said. Draco frowned at the insult, glancing over to the potion. It smelled like sour milk. “And I think you could, as well. So I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh?” Draco said flatly.

“I need to see your library. At your family home.”

It was impressive that Draco could suppress a reaction to even that. “Oh,” he said again.

“Hermione was curious about a book she thinks you may have.” He held out the decoy paper. Draco took a step forward, plucking it away and reading the title. “And you should know by now that ‘curious’ for her is anyone else’s ‘obsessed’.”

Draco made a begrudging sound of agreement. “A children’s story?”

Harry shrugged. Draco flipped the paper over, but the back was blank.

“I was instructed by the Head Auror not to leave the premises.”

Harry wasn’t sure if that choice of words was meant to be an insult. Was he poking fun at Harry for passing off his responsibilities to Ron? “Safety in numbers.”

“Safety. For whom?”

“Both of us?” Harry ventured, suspecting he was being taunted.

Draco shook his head, mouth tight. “I believe the sight of you would put my mother into cardiac arrest.”

“Oh.” Harry filed that away to ask Hermione about later. “I think I have a solution for that.”

_____________________

“Are you still there?” Harry asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Yes,” his voice whispered out of thin air. “I have _not_ run away from you in the last five seconds.”

Harry rolled his eyes. It was disconcerting, walking down a city street knowing he wasn’t alone. His instinct wanted him to slow down and keep Draco on his left, like he would if he were walking with anyone. But he couldn’t see so much as a shoe tip.

It was early. And cloudy. Something about the weather meant Draco was able to leave the potion unattended, so this trip had been instigated by Draco appearing in his living room, tapping his stopwatch. At least Harry had been wearing a shirt that time.

They only had three hours until Draco needed to be back, and a good chunk of that time had been used up by his boggling over the Cloak.

 _The_ Cloak, he kept calling it. Harry only understood it very little, but he was sympathetic to the fact that it could really be considered something like a holy grail to people raised on those wizarding stories. Ron and Hermione talked about it like a useful tool.

It was…funny, Draco’s refusal to believe Harry was telling him the truth. Sort of sweet. He’d been smiling as he slipped the hood over his head, and then Harry couldn’t see him at all. Another strange feeling – Harry never knew when Draco was looking at him.

“Walk faster,” he hissed. Harry sighed and picked up the pace.

“I’m short. _You_ walk _slower_.”

“You’re not,” Draco said, which seemed a strange thing to argue about. Harry threw the empty air next to him an eye roll.

His first idea had been to Apparate from his front steps. Draco wasn’t sure they would be able to. That’s all he said about it, but Harry understood. Even though just being there hadn’t triggered any Dark Mark alarm, Apparating in or out might.

So they were walking up Warwick Way to an Apparition point he had used before. He was being very snippy about the whole thing, like he expected Harry to make fun of him.

“This explains a lot, you know.”

“What does?” Harry said to thin air, not turning his head.

“This cloak. I drove myself mad as a second year trying to figure out how you were always out after curfew and never getting caught. I just assumed the staff allowed you to break the rules out of adoration.”

“It seems like I got in a fair amount of trouble, actually” Harry amended, thinking of all the detention stories he was told. Draco went quiet after that.

“Here,” he said a few minutes later. Harry turned left, into the narrow alleyway. Something invisible brushed against his hand.

“Where is it we’re going?”

“Wiltshire.”

Harry stopped at the far wall, turning toward the opening and whistling. “Posher than posh.”

“We’ll have to side-along,” Draco said. Harry held out his arm.

A beat passed before he heard Draco mutter something under his breath. Then there was a pressure against his elbow.

“Ready?”

He nodded. They watched the tide of the crowd, and as soon as there was a break Draco’s hand tightened and the word squeezed to a pinpoint.

The sudden absence of sound was jarring. Ambient city noise was cut out, replaced by chirping birds. The dim alleyway was now a meandering country lane. Browning grass swayed at the edge of a line of tall trees, in an autumn mix of orange and brown and green. The clouds were thinner there, sunbeams falling over an open field on the other side of the road. There was one house in the center of it, but Harry knew that wasn’t where they were going. 

Draco let go of him. Harry could actually see the grass move as it was crushed under his invisible feet. “This way,” he said, and appeared with a flourish. The cloak shimmered into view as he held it away from his body, toward Harry. It had messed up his hair.

“How far?” Harry pulled it on, smelling the remains of expensive cologne. The fabric was impossibly light, draping like gossamer and not trapping his heat.

“That’s the drive up there,” Draco said, pointing toward a break in the trees. The cement of the road became darker and much newer. Harry could feel the magic sweeping over them already.

“Did you tell her we were coming?”

Draco glanced over his shoulder. His eyes couldn’t find anything to focus on, so he just looked at the ground. “No.”

“Okay.”

“It’s…worse,” he said, swiping a hand through his hair several times, pushing it back into place. He was wearing nicer robes than usual, if that was possible. But it was clear he still wasn’t sleeping. “When she has time to prepare. She knew I was in London for a bit, but…I don’t normally see her this often in a year.”

“Oh,” Harry said, and left it at that. They turned onto the drive, walked past some trees, and there it all was.

The concrete wound in an arc, swooping left and ending with a wide turnabout that housed a massive stone fountain just in front of the doors.

It was Elizabethan, aged gray brick and so many windows. No Hogwarts, certainly, but beautiful. The structure itself was a little stark, but unseasonably green hedges and vines adorned the front face, white and pink blossoms bursting all over. Beyond the main house was a large pond, lined with more too-green trees and occupied by what looked like large white swans.

Draco was walking so fast it seemed he was purposefully trying to leave Harry behind. He clearly didn’t want to be here. Harry wondered why he had agreed to this at all, and why he had agreed on bringing Harry.

Maybe the allure of getting to actually wear the Cloak was too strong.

Draco stopped suddenly at the fountain, fussing with his cuffs.

“You’ll walk straight up the central staircase and to the left,” he said in a low voice, frowning at a button. “The library is past the Beryl Conservatory. Large mahogany door. All you need to do is say the name of the book you’re after. Understood?”

“You’re not coming?” A stupid question. Harry should be seizing the chance to be in the library alone. He just doubted his ability to actually find his way up there.

“I’ll be along,” Draco said evasively, shaking his sleeve out and marching forward. Harry kept close behind.

The doors opened on their own as Draco approached. There was a House Elf just inside, wearing a beautiful tweed suit. They bowed low. “Master Draco. How lovely to see you.”

“How are you, Carys?” Draco asked, shockingly warm all of a sudden. Carys smiled at him, bouncing on their heels.

“Wonderful. Did you see the gardenias? Not easy keeping those healthy with all this rain.”

“They’re magnificent.” Draco snapped his fingers, and the doors shut. He glanced around in a nervous way. Harry should have already made for the stairs, probably, but this odd exchange had captured his attention. “Where’s my mother?”

“In her study. Shall I inform her – ?”

“No need. I’ll go talk to her myself. Thank you.”

“Oh. Well – “ Carys kept up with him as he went down the long hall to the left, launching into more gardenia talk. Harry stood there in the quiet, looking around. It wasn’t inviting, exactly. Pretty, and elegant. The floors were sparkling black granite, the stairs lined with marble banisters and two carved swans with emerald eyes. The air itself was almost stale. This place had been even grander, in the past. He got the sense all the empty space used to be filled with lavish things. Raids, Hermione said.

Harry took a step, then stopped as two House Elves popped into existence two feet away from him. They appeared mid-stride, hurrying the opposite direction Draco had gone. Neither of them were Carys. One wore robes and the other had on a blazer and skirt.

“Is he staying for dinner?” The robed one’s voice was deep and accented. Welsh. “We always alert the kitchens and he ends up leaving before tea.”

“Carys is with him now. We prepared oolong for Mistress but he prefers mint. Do we have fresh mint?”

Once that danger had passed, Harry jogged up the staircase. His footfalls seemed very loud in the huge room. Thankfully the second floor had carpet. He went left, looking at all the ornate, closed doors. The air up here smelled even staler, like dry hay or something. Unused.

The hallway opened up into a sitting room. Every piece of furniture was a light green color, so he figured he’d found the conservatory. And there was the mahogany door. Etched expertly to depict a very tall, bearded man holding a book in one hand and a quill in the other. He had emeralds for eyes, too.

The air that filtered out smelled of book binding and old parchment. He got a pretty strong sense of magic that must have been the Archiving spells.

The true scale of the room was hidden by the stacks. Ceiling high shelves, some protected by glass, stretched and turned in on each other. There was an armchair near the door, nestled between an empty table and a spindlier stand that had what looked like a cigar case on it. Two tall candleholders sat behind it, both lit by white flames.

Harry dug Hermione’s paper out of his pocket and cleared his throat. 

“ _Hellenistic Happenstance.”_

There was utter silence for a long second, then something shifted behind the shelves. He walked toward the sound, and as he passed the armchair one of the candles floated up from the stand and zoomed over to him. He was so startled he almost didn’t realize it was trying to lead him somewhere.

There were more candles lit throughout the twisting labyrinth, as well as chairs and short tables. The candle stopped over one about four turns from the start, in front of a shelf lined with thick, sad-looking books.

One of them was sitting on a nearby table. The candle set itself down next to it, providing some light while Harry searched his pockets for the cell phone.

It felt frail and ancient in his hands, the cover a thin cardboard and the pages like onionskin. He very gingerly flipped it to the other side, opening the back and looking at the page numbers. Five hundred and two pages. All this work, for two pages.

It was difficult to make the camera focus, at first, but he got the hang of it after a few pages, turning and snapping over and over again. He read a word here and there, but not enough to understand what the book was about. There were probably two hundred pages to photograph, so he barely had time to think as he hurried along.

When there were maybe twenty pages left, he heard soft footsteps.

Draco turned the corner just as Harry had shoved the book back onto its shelf. He looked harried, like he’d just escaped something horrible.

“Potter?” He called out, looking at the candle.

“I’m here.”

He took a step closer. “This is the history section.”

Harry swiped up the candle. “I got a bit distracted. Show me the way?”

Draco glared at the candle, for lack of eye contact, and swiveled on his heel. Harry followed him around a few tight bends. He had grown up in this place, with access to this library. He knew exactly where this children’s book was without invoking the naming spell. Had he read it before?

The shelves thinned out, became more colorful. Draco walked unerringly to the last shelf on a row, just before it ended at a brick wall and a hanging coat of arms that, after a double take, Harry realized was an exact replica of one hanging in the front hall of Grimmauld Place. The Black family crest.

“I do pay them, you know,” Draco muttered, sweeping his finger along the topmost row, looking for the Pegasus book.

“Pay who?”

“The Elves.”

“Do you?” Harry asked, shocked. That irritated Draco.

“Yes, of course I - Oh.” He stopped searching the shelf, instead throwing an amused smirk at Harry’s left shoulder. “You’ve forgotten, I take it?”

“Probably. Forgotten what?” 

Draco put his attention back to the books, pulling out a narrow thing, more cover than pages. It looked ancient, too old to be touched by gloveless hands. He set it down and started waving his wand over it in even, straight lines. A Duplication charm.

“House Elves are citizens now, Potter. Or wasn’t that the first thing Granger drilled into your head?”

“What does Hermione have to do with it?”

Draco smiled a private smile. “They’re caretakers of the house, now, technically, not of its occupants. Though for whatever reason they’ve taken a shine to my mother.”

Harry _had_ wondered why the Elves at Diagon Alley were so well-dressed. They were bloody citizens and he had no idea! “And a shine to you, it would seem.”

“Yes, well.” Draco stopped smiling, and stopped waving his wand. He picked up the children’s book, only it remained on the table. There were two copies now, seemingly identical in every way. “This should last her five days,” he said, dragging his thumb along the rough edge of the cover.

“Why do you think she wants it?”

Draco lifted a shoulder. “It’s a classic fable. Predates Beedle the Bard.”

“It looks dull,” Harry teased. A line formed between Draco’s brow. “What’s it about?”

Draco thought for a still second, staring at the cover. “A Pegasus wanders into a garden, and eats an apple off the ground. The garden belongs to a centaur, who scolds the Pegasus for stealing. Of course, the Pegasus has no concept of property and asks the centaur why he would begrudge a fellow beast this fallen fruit. The centaur claims he is no beast, that he is a fellow to man, and that he has a small fortune of man’s coin that he uses to trade in the nearby town.

“The Pegasus doesn’t understand what a coin might do, but says his silver horn is the most beautiful of his herd, and that the others defer to him and consider him the best.

“He comes back every day after that, and the centaur always tells him to leave. They have some…philosophical conversations, and on the third day a pair of men ambush them from the trees. One attacks the centaur, the other the Pegasus. The centaur tries to reason with him, and gets stabbed in the heart. The man steals all the coins from his saddle bag. Pegasus gores his attacker through the stomach with his silver horn. He eats the rest of apples at his leisure, and returns to the moors to be with his herd.”

Harry moved closer, drawn in by the softness of Draco’s voice and captivated by his expression. Somber and contemplative. Torchlit, he looked quite Byronic.

“I mean, it’s problematic,” Draco said. “Centaurs aren’t beasts, like this story implies. Times have changed.”

“Is that how you thought of me?” Harry asked, keeping his voice low. He didn’t want to startle Draco by speaking so close so suddenly. “The Pegasus?”

Draco picked his head up, eyes tracking Harry’s eyeline and just missing it. He had on his serious non-expression, but his eyes glittered with danger.

"Think you're funny?"

"Maybe a bit."

“Take it off,” he said, very quietly. Harry stepped back, alarmed.

But Draco reached forward, his hand reaching out and sliding up Harry’s arm to grip his shoulder. Harry couldn’t move, his instinct to retreat turning into something else, watching in wild anticipation as Draco’s other hand came up toward his head to pull the hood down. It was suddenly very hot under the Cloak, and he was eager to get it off, to breathe in Draco’s wonderful scent and –

There was a _pop_ , and Draco whirled around, pushing Harry back into the nearest shelf.

“Friga!” He said, breathless. “You startled me.”

“Mistress Narcissa implores you to - “ The house elf began, then she frowned. “Are you alright?”

Draco nodded, straightening up just enough to appear natural while still pressing Harry back with his shoulder. Harry didn’t dare move, even though this position was fantastically inappropriate.

“I already told her I can’t stay,” Draco went on. “You’re not her messenger, Friga. Just ignore her if you wish.”

Friga still frowned, her nostrils flaring like she could smell something. Could she? “Of course, Master Draco,” she said. “You and your guest are most welcome.”

Then she poofed away. Draco gave a disbelieving huff of air.

“How did she know I was here?”

“I have no idea. But we’re very lucky she doesn’t know just who my guest is. Then you’d really never escape.”

He still hadn’t moved. His foot was between Harry’s, one hip digging to his side. Harry kept his hands balled into fists, counting down from ten until finally Draco inhaled sharply and moved away, replacing the original book and tucking the duplicate under his arm.

“Let’s go, Potter.”

“Draco – “

He was already turning the corner. Harry collected himself and followed.

_________________________

“And then...then I’ll have to get Smets and Gallahey to follow up with Catastrophes.” Ron sat at Harry’s kitchen table, head in his hands, while Harry made curry. “Then...Dean’ll still be on the hunt for that cauldron smuggler...so any new assignments will fall to Seamus and me…”

Harry knew Ron was talking to himself more than anything, but he was starting to feel guilty. “I can come in, you know. If you need me, or need another body, It’s not like I’m - “

“No,” Ron said quickly. “I’m just trying to get my thoughts straight. You don’t need to...I mean, you don’t want to…?”

“I really would like to help,” Harry said truthfully, stirring masala with his wand. “It’s still my name on the door.”

Ron was quiet for a moment. Then, “How have you been getting on?”

“Great, actually.”

“Yeah,” Ron murmured. “Yeah, it seems that way. What...what is it you’re doing throughout the day?”

“Hmm?”

“Like, you’re here all day with that snake - “

“Castor.”

“Right. With Castor. What’s it been, now, five weeks?”

Harry sprinkled curry powder over the sizzling chicken. “Six.”

“And I’ve never known you to take a day off. Not since becoming Head Auror. And if you weren’t at work you were with Teddy, and if you weren’t with Teddy...well, I don’t even know.”

“I read,” Harry said, trying to stop Ron from saying any more depressing things. “I’ve been cooking for you and Hermione...I talk to Castor a bit, I clean…I write to Teddy…”

“You garden,” Ron said, lunging across the table to spin one of the small ceramic plant bowls around. Harry had stuck them in the window to catch the sunlight. “That’s a change. What are they?”

“Seeds. From one of Hagrid’s pumpkins.”

“You’re growing pumpkins.”

“Er, yeah,” Harry said, put off at Ron’s tone. “Four of them. I’m using MagiGro, so hopefully we could carve them up or something. Teddy said he saw some fifth-years levitating Jack-O-Lanterns on to the suits of armor at Hogwarts, and I guess he’s never done that with me before, so - _what,_ Ron?”

Ron closed his mouth. “I didn’t say a word.”

“Which part of this is new to you?”

“All of it,” he said, then thought better of it. “I mean, you’re so…”

“Enthusiastic?”

He bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. Harry sighed in defeat, turning back to their food to angrily shake the chicken pan. “You said I was a good father.”

“You are!”

“How could I, if I never put in any effort?”

Ron’s chair scraped back, and he leaned his hip against the counter next to Harry. Very close. Really intimately close. “You did put in effort. More than most.”

“Sure.”

Ron stared at him, contemplating. Then Harry shoved a plate of food under his nose and he was sufficiently distracted for a good ten minutes. Ron was a little bit easy to manipulate, or at least divert. Hermione was the opposite - the puppetmaster.

“Me and ‘Mione got a letter from Ted, too,” Ron said. “Yesterday.”

Harry swallowed a mouthful of chicken. “Yeah?”

Ron moved the twines of his fork around the remaining sauce on his plate, frowning. “He asked if you were doing okay, or if you’d got your memories back yet.”

“Of course I haven’t. He’d be the first person I told!”

“I’ll let him know. And I’ll tell him...you’re doing good. Which is a relief, by the way. You were properly devastated about him being gone.”

Harry swallowed, suddenly feeling a little guilty for eating curry without Teddy. He was always going on about missing it. Even so, all he talked about was the restaurant. Had Harry never cooked for him before? “I s’pose I must have been. This place was probably a lot more lively with him in it.”

Harry had wondered over that a lot - how it would be when Teddy wasn’t at school. When Harry got to wake up and see him every morning and feed him and put him to bed at night. Even if eleven year olds were too old to be put to bed, they could still stay up late together, or fall asleep on the couch the way he and Ron did. Or was that too chummy? Should he be firm and disciplinarian about it?

“Not long now,” Ron said. “The holidays will be here soon.”

“Two months.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.” Ron looked very ill at ease. “That first week, when he was gone, you - “ He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, leaning back. “You were a nightmare. Being in the office was like sitting on a landmine.”

He stopped there, clenching his jaw and looking guilty until Harry urged him to keep talking.

“I kept trying to get you to talk to me about it, instead of just taking it out on everyone. I think Élise had to go take a cry once or twice. You worked nonstop, you were drinking alone…”

He hesitated again. “Come on,” Harry said, “Don’t spare my feelings.”

Ron smiled weakly. “It’s…Teddy, you know? It’s always been about Teddy. You brought him here when he was two. That’s when things started to get better. You...had someone to take care of, and I think that took your mind off the worst things. Mum camped out here for about a week to help you adjust, and I thought that would really drive you mad, but you took it like a champ. George called you Diaper Man until Teddy was old enough to tell him to stop.”

“And I bet you and Hermione helped a lot,” Harry observed. Ron’s glumness brightened a little.

“Of course we did. He’s my only nephew. And you needed us, because hard as you tried you were a nineteen year old bloke with an entire baby to keep alive… but I think the three of us put together did an alright job.”

Harry nodded fervently.

“But it wasn’t - “ Ron looked away, gazing at the pumpkin pots. “You didn’t actually get better, I don’t think. You were pretending. But you fooled us for a long time, up until Christmas...five years ago? The _Prophet_ had gotten a picture of you in Hogsmeade with ‘a mysterious blonde’ and Mum actually had the nerve to ask you about it.”

“A blonde?”

“Luna.” Ron rolled his eyes. “She had her face half-covered with a scarf. Even if I hadn’t known who it was, the papers are _always_ running bullshit articles like that. I think Mum was just...hoping.” He gave Harry an apologetic look. “The first question, you tolerated. After the second, you took Teddy and left. Without a word. It was...chilling. The look on your face was just like it used to be… You stopped coming by the Burrow after that, for a long time.”

So that was why. Or maybe Molly had just hit upon a pressure point that night.

“So it was better, in some ways. You were completely different at work. Ruthless, one might say, and that would be saying it nicely. I did my best to just...back you up where I could. But I worried. Sometimes it was like...”

The front legs of his chair hit the kitchen floor. “Sorry. I’m talking a lot.”

“I don’t mind,” Harry said. “I want to know.”

“Why? You’ll have your memories back, soon enough. All this talking will have been for nothing, right?”

Harry almost didn’t understand, then remembered all at once that yes, Hermione was still supposed to be working on that. On getting his brain back together. The agreement they’d come to was unofficial at best.

“I don’t think so. I’d rather live in the moment.”

Ron digested that, tapping his fork against his plate.

“You should get it off your chest,” Harry said.

“What?”

“It doesn’t sound like I was an easy person to be friends with, or to work for.”

He knew he’d hit the nail on the head. Ron’s freckles darkened.

“No, you weren’t. Aren’t. I mean - yeah.” He cleared his throat again. “Sorry. It’s weird to have you staring at me like that.”

“I’m just listening.”

Ron nodded. “That’s what I’m saying. Weird.”

“Oh.” Harry’s chest suddenly hurt. “Ron, I - “

“It’s not your fault.” He looked very on edge, all of a sudden. “You don’t remember doing any of it, so I don’t know why I’m - “

“You think he’ll resent you for it?”

“He?”

“Me,” Harry corrected. “When I’m back to normal.”

“I...dunno. I hope not. I don’t think I’ve said anything too terrible.” He smiled, looking a little like George.

“Hermione said to tell you she’d be late tonight.” Harry had only seen her long enough for her to snatch the book out of his hands and give him a hug. Whatever those two pages contained, she was sure to know by the end of the week. There was a determined look to her eye that Harry was starting to understand.

“What’s new?” Ron said cheerily, abandoning the seriousness of their conversation as easily as shedding a coat. “Have you still got that Gobstone set?”

“In the hall closet.”

Ron loped off to find it. Harry walked their dishes to the sink and sat them down, looking at the sudsy water and masala and thinking hard about living in the moment.

_____________________

Hermione never showed, and eventually Ron called it a night, defeating Harry at Gobstones for a fifth time before knocking off. Harry released Castor from the bedroom and let him crawl about the house while he finished up with the dishes and got ready for bed.

For the first time in memory, he got himself off. In the shower, steam rising all around, he rested his head on the cold wall and took himself in hand. It was a fucking weird thing to do, when he could so clearly visualize the _concept_ of what he was doing, without ever having done it. But the weirdness faded after the first few hesitant strokes. He thought of Draco’s soothing voice, of firelight and book binding.

_Take it off._

If they’d had another minute to themselves, what would Draco have said? What would he have _done?_ Maybe press Harry against the shelving in a different context, one with a lot more hands and eyes and mouths…and whispers.

_I know what you’re planning. Next week. Don’t._

After he came, an intense, fleeting elation, Harry wondered where those words in particular came from. Draco hadn’t said anything like that to him, but it was Draco’s voice in his head. He was sure he must have heard it, and forgotten or something.

He fell asleep with a pounding headache, Castor sidling up against him in the warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck JK Rowling


	8. Mille Baisers

Harry’s cleaning finally made its way to the home office. He made Ron take a look to show him what files or binders could be disposed of. There was no way of knowing what he had been in the middle of before the memory loss, which didn’t seem to be a problem. Ron shrugged and said it all looked Duplicated anyway. Original documents were saved in the Auror vault or filed with the Clerks on level two.

It took an entire afternoon Vanishing what wasn’t needed. Some files seemed unrelated to office goings-on – he stuck those in an empty desk drawer. Finally, there was just a single tower of files to be passed by Ron again – just in case. They looked unfinished and still had quilled scribbles in the margins. As little as Harry wanted to be in the office, he was quite worried about getting rid of something important and his coworkers suffering for it.

The carpet was visible for the first time in…what looked like a very long time. Harry dragged his toes through it, pushing up the gray fibers where they had been pushed flat for so long. Pointing his wand at tea stains. He even got down on hand and knees to really thoroughly fluff, picking up stray bits of paper as he went. Hole punches, receipts, sugar quill wrappers, several aluminium bottle caps. It was worse near the bottom of the desk.

Which was where he was crouched when he saw something wedged beneath. Not a scrap at all. It was a journal of sorts. Brown dragon leather.

He fished it out and opened it, glancing over the first page to get a feel for if it was important or not.

It wasn’t for work. It wasn’t a clipping from the _Prophet,_ or an old correspondence.

He finished the first page, and then the second.

By the time he'd read the thing front to cover, the light in the room had changed and his ankles were loudly protesting his crouched position.

He shut it and placed it in another empty drawer, hands shaking.

Important, he reasoned. Definitely important.

_______________________

_Harry,_

_The professors have properly lost their minds, I think. I have a total of 70 inches due before the month is up. I try to do a little each night, but I also spend a lot of time helping Reena with Potions and quizzing each other on Herbology terms for our oral quizzes each class. We formed a study group with some others for late at night in the common room. I figured if any of us spent half as much time studying as we do goofing off after curfew, we’d be better off._

_It’s worse for Réne. He’s stranded over in Ravenclaw tower and he doesn’t want to ask any of that lot for help, even his friends. He says there’s a big stigmata about being brilliant at schoolwork without trying and that all they do in their common room is play games and read because no one wants to be seen studying. And I thought Gryffindor were the stupid ones._

_Flitwick gave us thirty points, though, because I knew how to make red flames before anyone else. It was really just an accident, though. I was trying to make a paper swan fly and accidentally sneezed. But he says the fact I set_ everyone’s  _swans on fire was actually the best bit of accidental magic he ever saw. He had to take ten points away when Gladdis Homal’s robes caught on fire. Still! I think we’ll end up with the House Point lead by winter break._

_I can’t think of anything else to write. Uncle Ron said you’ve got a snake in the house? Like it snuck in somehow? I guess it would, since it’s so cold outside. I hope you didn’t kill it or anything. I also hope it didn’t bite you. Maybe you could take it to the zoo._

_I saw a mouse in the dungeons a few days back. But I’ve never seen a snake in the castle._

_mille baisers (which Réne says means ‘distinguished salutations’ in French)_

_Ted._

________________________

“Back up to ten,” Dean said. “Impressive.”

Harry dropped from the pull-up bar, arms crying out in exhaustion. “You said it was fifteen, before.”

“I said _I_ can do fifteen. You were doing twenty.”

“Fuck.” Harry panted into his water tin, starting to sincerely regret his lack of exercise in the past weeks. His body right after the attack was hard to remember. He should have appreciated it more at the time.

Heavy exercise with Dean made every morning a mess of stiff muscles and weak thighs – his shoulder in particular ached almost constantly now – but warm tea usually did the trick, along with a capsule of muggle painkillers he’d grabbed at the store.

“Twenty,” he mused. “I’ll get there eventually.”

“Sure you don’t wanna call it a day?” Dean asked as Harry went to the shelves of weighted barbells. These Auror weights were particularly awful – charmed to become incrementally heavier as the lifter’s stamina decreased.

“Not just yet,” Harry grunted, hefting a twenty pounder.

“Now you’re sounding like yourself,” Dean winked, starting on his own set. “Got any plans this weekend? We miss you at pub nights.”

“Yeah…I dunno. I think George is starting to rely on me to be his guinea pig while – “ He bit his tongue. He’d been about to say _while Lee’s working_. “Or maybe I’ll go to that Quidditch game.”

“Falcons vs. Bangers. Should be good,” Dean grunted, pulling his chin up to the bar, biceps bulging. Harry focused on his own reflection and pushed himself until the weights were heavy enough to pin themselves to the floor.

They were chatting over the shower stall divide when the changing room door banged open.

“Lads.”

“Not now, Seamus,” Dean called, voice dripping with innuendo. “Harry’s in here.”

“We’ve got a situation.”

Dean’s water cut off. Harry did the same, pulling his towel off the rack and stepping out. Seamus stood there with his hands on his hips, breathing hard. Had he _run_ here?

“Well, don’t tell us too quickly, Seamus,” Dean urged.

“Ron just stormed in all upset about something, and a few minutes later Hermione came in, and now they’re having a row in Harry’s office.”

“A row,” Dean repeated.

Seamus shrugged. “Ron’s yelling. She’s not.”

They looked at Harry at the same time.

“No,” he said. “It’s none of _my_ business, surely.”

“It’s _your_ office. And possibly the fate of intra-Ministry peace at stake.”

Dean nodded. “Last time they fought, our office lost it’s per diem for a month.”

“What’s that got to do with…” Harry cast it aside. Hermione probably did have a hand in the Accounting work. Why not. “What are they rowing about?”

Seamus seemed at a loss.

“Well, I’ll just go barge in, then,” Harry muttered, grabbing his clothes and retreating into the stall. Dean and Seamus whispered to themselves and disappeared. Harry sent some very ill will their way.

The place had cleared out, so no one was there to help. Harry couldn’t hear the yelling until he was standing on the other side of his office door. Ron’s voice cut through what sounded like at least one _muffliato,_ rising and falling in pitch.

Why _had_ Seamus come to him? Ron and Hermione were married. It was a mite inappropriate to be doing this at work, but it didn’t seem too bad.

He waited another second, hoping to hear Hermione answer. If she was yelling, too, then he _really_ didn’t want to be a part of it.

But she was quiet.

Harry sighed and pushed the door open.

Hermione was in his chair, head bent forward onto one hand. Ron was leaning over the desk, in the middle of saying something that sounded really cutting. Harry couldn’t quite catch it, because as soon as the door opened he stopped.

“Hey, Harry,” he said, crossing his arms.

Harry pulled the door shut behind him. The entire room reeked of tension. “Seamus was scared. What’s going on?”

“I’m married to a fucking Unspeakable, that’s what,” he snapped. Harry froze. “One who thinks it’s okay to just – “

“ _Alright,_ Ron,” Hermione exploded, and then just as quickly went hushed. “I’ve heard enough.”

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said! Why don’t you tell Harry what you did?”

She looked up to glower at him, and Harry almost gasped. She looked horrible – dark circles rounded tired, bloodshot eyes. She looked worse than _Draco._ “Ron.”

“Or don’t.” He threw his hands up. “It’s not like I get to have an opinion. But maybe now that he’s not egging you on – ”

“Seamus is right to say something. This isn’t productive.” She stood, but she wobbled on her feet and had to catch herself on the desktop. Ron swiftly turned the other direction, like he couldn’t bear to look at her.

“Seriously – what is going on?” Harry asked again. “Hermione?”

She only glanced at him, then back to Ron. “I’ll see you at home,” she said, resigned to his silence.

“What – “ Harry started. Hermione grabbed his elbow, tugging him along with her as she left. “Wait. Ron – “

“Come on,” she urged. “Walk me home.”

“You’re leaving this early in the day?” Harry looked back. His office door slammed shut with a spell from Ron.

“I’ve worked more than enough.” Her grip on his arm was very tight, and he realized she was using him to keep steady.

“You’re not well.”

“I’m fine,” she hissed. “I just need to…rest a bit.”

Her hair seemed less curly than usual. Flat. And her skin had an ashy hue to it. They walked through the Atrium together, gathering more stares than usual. Harry had to let go of her to Floo, and once they were in her flat she seemed even weaker.

“You look like shit,” he said as she tilted onto the couch. Buck hopped up onto her lap, nosing at her hands for a pat.

“I know.”

“Well, you didn’t look like this yesterday.”

“I’ve…been doing research,” she whispered, picking at the fur behind Buck’s ears. “Could you make tea?”

Because she so looked about to keel over, he did just that.

“Thanks,” she murmured, taking a mug from him. Buck had disappeared. “You didn’t see me yesterday, you know.”

Harry leaned against the mantle, alarmed. “We had lunch.”

“Yesterday,” she nodded. “For you.”

Harry glanced at the Floo canister. He was used to her talking nonsense, but maybe a trip to St. Mungo’s was needed.

“Do you know what this is?” She asked drawing his attention by unbuttoning the top of her blouse. Balancing her tea with one hand, she drew out a thick gold chain. A pendant hung from it, either very heavy or highlighting her current weakness.

Harry moved closer, sitting and reaching out for it. It _was_ heavy – much too heavy for its side. It matched the color of the chain, but even real, solid gold wouldn’t have been this dense.

And it wasn’t solid. A spindly sort of cage wrapped around a small, hourglass shaped bauble. If he squinted, he could see a shifting substance inside the gold, like it was hollow. Hermione pulled it away when he tried to get a closer look.

“It’s a time turner,” she murmured, tucking it inside her clothes again. “They used to be standard fare for Unspeakables. Any qualified Ministry worker could apply for one. But…we destroyed their supply in fifth year.”

She looked vaguely proud of that.

“Anyway, now there’s just this one. I made it myself.”

“You can…what, time travel with that?”

“Only by a few hours.”

“How _many?”_ He pressed, astounded.

She took a deep breath. “As long as it takes. I think it’s been around sixty this time.”

“You’ve been awake _sixty_ hours? Doing _what?”_

She took a shaky sip of tea.

“No wonder Ron’s furious. I reckon I should be as well.”

“I have a lot of responsibility. You understand that.” The way she said that clearly referred to the _other_ Harry. Because _now_ Harry didn’t understand at all. “And it’s not like I…make a _habit_ out of this, whatever Ron thinks. In fact you usually cover for me.”

The other Harry. The one who routinely, it sounded, lied to Ron about his own wife’s whereabouts and allowed his friend to run herself ragged.

But they could argue about that later. “You said you’ve been researching.”

“And thinking.” Another slow sip, her eyes far off. Sixty hours shuffling through the presumably dark, dank halls of the Department of Mysteries, with that heavy _thing_ hanging round her neck.

“So? What have you found that needs so much thinking over?”

“Nothing I feel comfortable putting to words,” she said.

“So what was the point?” He asked.

Hermione looked at him, lips parting around nothing. “The point?”

“You have nothing to show for all of this?” He gestured in her general direction. “What’s the point of it? The secrecy?”

She blinked a few times, her eyes glassy. “Fine.”

He waited, eager for any information about Draco. Because he assumed that’s what this was about. He hoped that’s what this was about.

“Those extra two pages you photographed,” she finally said, with moderate reluctance. Not much, to be honest, just a bit of history…I told you the original citation was wrong. _This_ aligns more with what he was talking about.”

The words came slowly, long pauses in between. Hermione was no longer teary-eyed, but clearly still out of it.

“Reversal of name, reversal of fortune,” she said, glancing at him. “ _Hellenistic Happenstance_ is about magic of fortune. I don’t know if you had a chance to read – “

“I didn’t.”

She nodded, holding the mug out. Harry took it. “Well, it’s nothing we were taught. Divination as we know it is Celtic in origin, more based in astrology and…other rubbish. The goal is to discern the future. This – the Greeks called it _katadesmoi._ I followed up with a counterpart of mine in the Greek Ministry, and she was able to confirm that the word means _to bind._ ”

Harry sipped the tea, trying to look less interested than he felt. Maybe his interest would bring her to her senses and stop this flow of information.

“Not quite the sort of bonding Draco is talking about, though,” she continued, rubbing her temple with one hand. “Looking into the future was pointless, to the ancient Greeks, because it didn’t exist yet. They didn’t believe in pre-determination; the future was what they made of it. These _katadesmoi_ spells, erm.” She stopped, appearing to think about something. “They connected certain people to certain outcomes. Athletic events, political victories, virility. Good outcomes, but also bad. They linked their enemies to undesired outcomes. Historically, the intention was represented by performing spells with the name of an enemy written backwards.”

She stopped talking. Harry blinked. “What does that have to do with…?”

“I don’t know,” she said loudly. “At least, not yet. I need more…time.”

“ _More_ time,” he huffed. “You need sleep.”

When he stood up, she stretched out, pulling a pillow beneath her head. “I’m usually at yours for this.”

“For what?”

“Nothing.” She sighed. “I’ll figure it out. I promise.”

“We have months still. It’s not a race.”

She shook her head, disagreeing with him but falling asleep halfway through the motion. Harry stood there a moment before bending down and gently slipping the time turner from around her neck. It wasn’t pleasant to hold, and he avoided staring into the hourglass part of it as he set it on the mantle, next to the Floo powder.

Maybe she would sleep better if she wasn’t wearing it. He found that he didn’t _want_ her to wear it, though he couldn’t figure out where his discomfort with it stemmed from, or why the heaviness of it was so repellant.

After all, it was just a necklace.

_______________________

There was a knock at his bathroom door when he was in the shower later that day. Night, in fact, so he was more than alarmed.

“Just me,” Ron’s voice called right after, warbled through the door and the water. Harry missed whatever else he said.

Harry shut the shower off. “Ron?”

“Yup.”

He threw a towel around himself and pushed the door open. “What did you say?”

Ron still had on his work robes. He hadn’t gone home. “I asked if you were up for a pint.”

“It’s a Tuesday.”

“Tonic water for you, then.” He looked behind him, at Harry’s bedroom. “You know, it’s _clean_ in here.”

__________________________________

Harry cajoled Ron into a restaurant instead of a pub. A small, out of the way sort of place. There was _a_ bar inside, buzzing with people while the low-lit booths were left empty. Rain pattered the window, an undeniable chill creeping in.

“Jesus,” Ron shuddered, pulling his borrowed coat tight. “Wizard bars don’t have this problem, you know.”

“We can’t go to wizard bars,” Harry whispered, pulling a menu over. “According to you.”

“Right you are.” He smiled. “You know word’s gotten around Hogwarts that you’re giving out autographs now. Won’t be able to go there, either.”

“I can handle it,” Harry said absently, ordering a tea as Ron ordered a beer. He kept looking out the window every few seconds, like he was waiting for someone. Harry finally asked him about it, after the third time.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just…long day.”

“Hm.” Harry observed his white-knuckled grip on his pint. “Is that any good.”

Ron cast it a dour look. “It’s barking.”

It was nearing nine o’clock, and pouring rain, and Harry would much rather have been in bed. “What did you mean, earlier? About me egging her on?”

Because this was clearly about Hermione.

Ron looked out the window again, face suddenly impassive. “Did she explain it to you?”

“Which part?”

“The time turner,” he said. Harry nodded. “Well, what do you think?”

So Harry and Ron had fought about this before. Harry took Hermione’s side often enough for it to be an issue.

 _What is the point?_ He wondered. What had Hermione been working on that was so important? Why had she let _Harry_ in on it, and not Ron? Why did Ron _allow_ it?

“I don’t like it,” he finally answered. Ron looked away from him. “I suppose that’s not the first time I’ve said that to you.”

“No,” he murmured. “But it is the first time you’ve meant it.”

“Why?” Harry asked, leaning in. “Why is it me and her against you?”

His nostrils flared at that phrasing, one hand flattening out on the table. “First she told me she _couldn’t_ tell me anything. Fine. I knew that’s how it would be, with her work and all. A few years in, I realized _you_ knew things. Things I didn’t. It’s just – I mean, I let it go, because at least once she started letting _you_ help her, she stopped going on these…binges.”

“You mean with the time turner?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “She uses it every single day, I reckon. Some days she’ll work late, but most of the time she doesn’t. Most of the time, she comes home at exactly five, but she’s so _exhausted_ that I know her day was more than just eight hours. She’ll admit to a few hours, ‘to make ends meet’, she’ll say. On days like today, though, it’s so obvious I can’t pretend to not notice.”

“Yeah,” Harry said.

“I know it seems like I’m making a big deal,” Ron said, waving away Harry’s argument. “But what scares me more than anything is the thought of it getting to be as bad as it was.”

“What d’you mean?”

“When she started at Mysteries. Years ago. I was in Auror training, still. And…I mean, she was alone. Entirely alone. Before you started working with her…” he rolled his eyes in an effort to hide the emotion in his voice. “Like I said, I have no idea what it was that you were up to. But you _helped_. She didn’t even take a weekend off until you were Head Auror.”

“That must – “ Harry stopped himself, wanting to speak his next words very carefully. “It…seems like…this sort of thing isn’t very good for your relationship.”

Ron squinted at him.

“I don’t want to contribute to…this,” Harry rushed forward, ignoring a massive pang of guilt. He _had_ contributed. The whole Malfoy Library situation had been done specifically to keep secret from Ron. “And I won’t. Not anymore.”

“Harry,” Ron breathed, rubbing a hand over his neck. “That’s not…I mean, I s’pose I appreciate the gesture, but that’s not what want.”

“It isn’t?”

“No,” he said firmly. “She needs you. Clearly, whatever it is she can’t manage on her own… she doesn’t think I can manage, either. As frustrating as that is, I know she’s right. It’s always been you.”

There was a twinge of something, behind the tiredness. It must have been jealousy. Harry couldn’t imagine this type of situation could possibly cause any other emotion in someone in Ron’s position.

“It’s not me. Not anymore.”

Ron didn’t look at him. “Yes, it is. Maybe not right _now_ , because, y’know, getting you back to normal is the thing that has her so worked up.

Harry had no answer to that. With all she was babbling about ancient Greece, it seemed her mind was firmly on Draco’s business. Was that why she was rushing it? Hurrying to get back to studying Harry? “Fixing” him?

“I don’t wanna choose sides,” he said. “And it’s not my place, besides.”

“It’s your place,” Ron said, with a shrewd look. The Auror look. “As much as it is mine.”

“You’re married,” Harry grit out.

Ron blew out a breath, shrugging again as his second beer was delivered. “Yeah, but. It’s the three of us.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Ron, I…it’s a bit weird, isn’t it?”

He looked genuinely confused. “What?”

Too late. The nerve was lost. “You know, I think you should talk to someone else about this. Someone with a firmer grasp on the situation.”

“Yeah? Who would that be?”

Harry ignored the rhetorical-ness of it. “Dunno. George?”

Ron almost choked on his drink. “Talk to _George?_ ” He snickered. “About you?”

“No. About Hermione.”

Ron’s smile faded.

“Or…your life. Whatever catches your fancy.”

“Well, I can’t say I _fancy_ George making fun of…my life.”

“You think he would?”

Ron didn’t look at him. While talking about Hermione seemed fine, this struck Harry as a different matter altogether. George and Ron didn’t, as far as Harry knew, spend much time together. Besides the odd banter over dinner, they didn’t really speak at all. George didn’t speak with any of his brothers, Harry had noticed. They certainly didn’t see him as often as Harry (both Other and Now) did. They didn’t _know_ him.

And, much like with Hermione, this _definitely_ wasn’t his place. But since he was playing the amnesiac buffoon…

“I find him quite nice to talk to,” he pressed. Ron set his jaw.

“You don’t mean ‘nice’. You mean…entertaining.”

“Nice,” Harry repeated. “And you’ve got loads of other brothers. I dunno. I just don’t think I’m in a place to help with…” he looked around at the restaurant. “Anything. Sorry.”

Ron looked very put off by this. “I think I prefer you. Even like this. My brothers have other things to worry about.”

“What about Ginny?”

He smiled at that. “She’d take my side over Hermione’s on a chilly day in Hell.”

“Well, perhaps you could make the _temporary_ effort to have a conversation with one of them. Maybe even Hermione.”

“I do talk to Hermione,” he muttered.

“Draco’s a good listener, as well.”

It was a cruel thing to say, and not even true, but Ron choked so dramatically on his brew half the bar looked over.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he said. “You were never that funny when you _did_ drink. Imagine us chatting about _Malfoy_.” He blinked. “ _Have_ you been chatting with him?”

“Here and there.” Harry told him about the antivenom. And the breakfast.

Hearing about the kitchen made some of the disgust and confusion fade from Ron’s expression, turning him reminiscent. “Yeah, Mum was always fighting with the house when we lived there. It didn’t want to cook for us. Just turned the food to sludge sometimes. Course the bloody place would perk up for _him._ ”

After the second pint, their already stilted conversation turned flat.

“S’pose I should get home,” Ron said with a frown. “ _Someone’s_ gotta make sure she doesn’t sleep an entire day.”

Someone. Harry understood now what Hermione meant by “ _I’m usually at yours for this”._

She _usually_ stayed at Harry’s when the time binges happened. She _usually_ argued with Ron about working so much, then Ron’s _boss_ took _her_ side, and then she stayed at that boss’ house until Ron had gotten over himself.

Friends or not, that _had_ to be the most toxic thing he’d ever heard.

“I’ve got it,” Harry offered, snatching up the bill before Ron. He didn’t feel silly until a moment later, when he remembered they were in a muggle bar and Ron hadn’t been planning on paying anyway. The Weasleys had a wide spread problem with using muggle money. “Stop by the shops with me? I’m out of tea.”

“Alright.” Ron smiled at the waiter as he picked up the money. “Blimey, I could use a cigarette. Hey! If you’re on the wagon, now, we could at _least_ start smoking again. Give ‘Mione something to be mad about, for once.”

Harry hummed, shrugging his coat on before they braved the night.

___________________________

“Any word?” Ginny asked him over Sunday dinner. They’d taken their plates out to the Burrow’s garden, sitting on the steps just the two of them. It was chaotic enough that no one noticed their absence inside. Ron and Hermione were focused on each other (inasmuch as Hermione could focus on anything these days – she still looked sickly tired most of the time), in silence or quiet conversation or just strange looks. Harry hoped they had talked things out. Neither of them had brough up the time turner or the fight to him again.

“Word? About me?” He thought about it, picking at his food. Hermione had asked him to come into Mysteries again earlier in the week. He had refused. “No.”

“Oh.” Ginny leaned back, bracing her elbows on the top step. “Sorry to hear that.”

 _No, you’re not_ , he thought to himself. How could anyone? “It’s alright.”

“I can see Hermione’s upset about it. And Ron.”

Either Ginny was misinterpreting the energy between Hermione and Ron, or she knew something Harry didn’t.

“I suppose.”

“Mum’s just…pretending everything’s normal. As usual. It’s weird, though, because I feel like everyone else is, too. Or – or not even _pretending,_ just…being _normal._ Even me. I’ve been going about my week, thinking of you, but I’m thinking of _you._ ”

“You think about me?”

“Yeah,” she breathed. “That’s just it. Passing thoughts, like I think about anyone else. It used to just be worry.” She exhaled a cloud of fog that diffused the glow of scattered pumpkins and gourds, charmed to illuminate the path. “Have you been to see Luna? Or anyone?”

“No. I expect I’ll see her next weekend. Gryffindor game.”

It was meant to be the day before, but there had been some sort of Bowtruckle infestation across the Great Lawn, courtesy of a Care of Magical Creatures class gone awry. Apparently some third years had fed one of the insects an unidentified Weasley product that had triggered mass reproduction. Mooning, indeed.

George hadn’t made it to dinner this week, possibly busy with damage control with Minerva. Bill and Fleur were also absent, him away on business and her visiting family in France.

“I visited her this past week,” Ginny said. “Just tea, didn’t make it up to the school. She asked after you.”

He smiled. “Something about my birth chart?”

She gave him a strangely irritated look. “Oh, you must spend more time with her instead of getting an impression through Ron and Hermione.”

Harry set his plate to the side, leaning back against the corner of the wall. “That would be difficult, seeing as she doesn’t know I’ve – well.”

“She’ll hardly notice the difference. Or care. But you and her have always gotten on _freakishly_ well.”

“I saw the scrapbook. It was mental.”

Ginny snorted. “Well, yes.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “Will you come see me play? The fourteenth, at Allen Bog.”

“Against the Kenmare Kestrels,” he said. She smiled. “Of course I’m coming.”

“That’s fantastic, Harry! You’ll have an amazing time. Box seats, as well. No press allowed.”

“Hmmm. Sounds alright. But what sort am I sharing this box with? I mean, I am _Harry Potter.”_

Ginny smacked the side of his head. “Cheeky. But that’s a good question. It’s the announcer’s box, so Lee Jordan will be in there.”

Harry relaxed. “Great.”

“And the team owners. Ours is Melody Zeyad, and the Kestrels’ is…his name is Darragh Ryan. And the Irish President of Magic, perhaps. I’m sure you’ve met all of them at least once before. If Ron’s with you, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

He un-relaxed. Suddenly crowds of fans didn’t seem half as bad as causing an international incident because he’d forgotten the name of the Irish President’s wife or something.

“What is it?” Ginny asked. He looked up at the sky. The moon was big. Waxing gibbous.

“Harry Potter isn’t just a celebrity.”

“No. You’re a politician, too. For what it’s worth.”

“It’s worth a lot.”

She bit her lip, burrowing down into her jumper. “Shacklebolt _tried_ to groom you up to it. You could have been the next Minister if you didn’t openly despise politics. Not to say you still _couldn’t_ be. There were plenty of write-ins at the last election.”

“I _definitely_ don’t want that.”

“We know.”

He looked at her. “What was my plan, then?”

Ginny looked back at him for a moment, on the verge of saying something. He knew she didn’t have an answer – at least not one she would ever say aloud. It was in her eyes the same way it was in Hermione’s.

It was so obvious, now that he had read that journal.

Charlie’s voice floated through the door, then out to them as he pulled it open. “It’s bloody freezing out here. What the hell are you two doing?”

“Enjoying the quiet,” Harry retorted, not missing Ginny’s tiny, relieved breath.

“Yeah, Char,” she said. “We were talking, not yelling. You should try it sometime.”

“Talking,” he scoffed, holding the door wide as she stood up. “Try _talking_ when there’s an eight-ton Ironbelly chasing you through a Ukranian cave system. _No_ broom, _no_ wand – “

“Alright, Grandpa,” Ginny smiled, kissing his cheek. “I take it all back.”

He scrubbed the kiss away with a gagging sound. “C’mon, Haz. Round of Ogden’s?”

“Harry doesn’t drink,” someone called. It sounded like Percy. Harry was grateful – he hadn’t made any kind of announcement about it, but alcohol had been gradually removed as a Sunday staple.

Charlie blinked, and smiled wider, taking Harry by the arm. “Cider, then. And mum’s breaking out the photo albums.”

After several hours of looking at indistinguishable ginger children in old photographs – Molly getting quite tipsy, along with Arthur – Harry started to wonder why they hadn’t done this before. Everyone present was overly eager to tell Harry an old story, only for everyone else to but in with their own recollection of the same event. The stories varied wildly, arms and hands smacking Harry on the arms as the maelstrom around him pointed and gestured toward the photobook Molly had placed over their laps.

One phrase got thrown around more often than ever before. “The twins”. They were at the center of every story, in one way or another. Always together, always in matching clothes and equally shaggy hairstyles. Always together, so there was nearly no need to utter Fred’s name at all. Just ‘the twins’.

That was why, Harry realized much too late. George was absent that night, and so everyone else had free reign to talk about things they never would while he was there.

“Remember this, love?” Molly asked Arthur, pointing out a photo of two young identical boys sat at the kitchen table, one toddler between them. “Boxing day, ’85.”

“I remember that,” Ron said at Harry’s ear, crowding in like the rest around the back of the couch. “I’m still crying in this photo because they’d Stuck a mousetrap to my foot that morning – “

“Rubbish,” Percy argued in Harry’s other ear. “You don’t remember that. You were five.”

“I’ve got the scar! I’ve got loads of scars – “

“Fred’s first broomstick,” Arthur interrupted. Though it was clearly also George’s. The twins stood side by side on the Burrow’s lawn, freshly ten years old with short training broomsticks in hand.

There was a hush over the unrelated squabbles in the room. Ginny pursed her lips, pausing in her movement for a refill of whisky. In the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione reach over the back of the couch to take Ron’s hand.

They’d moved from early childhood to adolescence. Now Harry showed up in the pictures, one brown and black mess of knobby knees and wild hair shoved in with the orange and freckles. He stood out, but also fit right in.

It was a strange thing, to look at eleven year old Harry and Ron. Of course he could see the resemblance in Ron’s face, now, but he had no reference point for himself. Young. Skinnier than even Teddy, hair sometimes very short and other times long. Ron had been chubby and Ginny so small it hurt his heart to look at her.

But also Fred and George, found in the margins of every photo looking like they were still laughing at something one of them had said.

The stories kept coming, but there was a more muted quality to them. Nods of agreement instead of gleeful arguing.

To hear the Weasleys tell it, Fred had been the mastermind of the two. The one who came up with all the chaos, or at least took the blame. Harry would have assumed that was George.

When Molly started sniffling, Arthur closed up the albums and called it a night.

But Molly latched onto Harry, pulling him back into the kitchen to load him up with Tupperwared food. He tried to pass it off to the others, but they quickly caught onto him.

“No, Harry,” Ginny argued solemnly. “You were _just_ saying how much you loved the gravy.” She placed the container into a cotton bag with the rest.

“And the beans,” Charlie insisted, adding in everything Molly had given _him_ to take. “Merlin, Mum, he loves your beans.”

“Mum,” Ron said. “D’you still have that black pudding? Harry was raving about it – “

“Of course!” She rushed into the pantry, overwhelmed. Harry resigned himself to the experience, holding the top of the bag open so Ron and Ginny could stuff it with cutlery and the odd whole onion.

He thought he could escape when everyone began shuffling to the Floo or outside to Apparate. Only Percy remained, finishing off the bottle with Arthur.

Hermione appeared before he was at the garden gate, calling his name and hurrying over with a bottle of wine.

“What’s that for?” He asked.

She fit it neatly into what little space was left in the heavy tote, then fixed her scarf around her neck. “Full moon’s Wednesday.”

He raised his eyebrows at her brisk, businesslike tone. “Yeah,” he glanced up. “How is he?”

“Not well. He’s asked me to stay away until after.”

“After the full moon? And you listened?”

“He was quite serious. But it’s clearly having an effect on him. You should…take some offerings.”

He frowned at her strange wording. “Sure. Maybe.”

They hadn’t parted in the best of moods. After that scene in the library Draco had ignored Harry until he left. That was two weeks ago.

Hermione smiled weakly, pushing her hair back. “Well, we’re Flooing out. So. See you tomorrow?”

“Sounds good. Hey – “ he stopped her, checking to make sure Ron hadn’t come outside. “Is it all good between you two?”

She bounced on her toes, warming herself. “It was just a spat. We’re fine.”

“Okay. Good.”

“I think…I might have you to thank for that, actually.”

“Oh.”

“He said he talked to you.”

Harry didn’t think that conversation had been particularly productive, but so long as they weren’t fighting anymore. “He did.”

Hermione stared at him.

“What?”

“I’d like you to come in to my department this week,” she said determinedly, switching back into her formal, cold voice.

Harry shifted the weight of the bag on his shoulder. She was challenging him, and he hadn’t been expecting it.

“I thought we agreed,” he said, lowering his voice. Her mouth tightened. “There’s no…rush – “

“I still have to make reports to the Aurors, Harry,” she said sternly, looking at the ground. “The Ministry has a vested interest in your recovery.”

“And you have a vested interest in the opposite,” he snapped. She looked up with something like horror. “So make something up.”

“What do you mean by that?” She whispered, sounding a bit panicked.

“I think you know.”

Her eyes widened, and Harry wondered if she knew about the journal. Maybe not. Maybe she really didn’t _know_ , and all she’d ever had was fears.

“’Mione!” Ron called, waiting on the back porch. He didn’t come closer.

Harry took a step back, wondering what this might look like. He’d promised Ron he would stay out of their fight, and not feed into whatever dependence linked him to Hermione.

She blinked at Ron’s voice, giving Harry a very unhappy look.

“It’s been two months,” she hissed. Then she turned and jogged back to the house, leaving Harry standing at the gate by himself.

“Night!” He called. Ron called back the same, and Harry took off down the lane, until even the orange pumpkin lights were gone.

Would she continue to pressure him? How clearly would he have to put it before she understood? Or…was she counting on _him_ not understanding?

It was all hopelessly mixed up, with her. She seemed to know so much, and yet he had a good feeling she wasn’t above a healthy amount of manipulation. Her compassion, sure, he trusted that.

But.

If Harry Potter was a politician, Hermione Granger was all of Parliament. And he was more useful to her as the Head Auror, someone to put her head together with. Though he couldn’t imagine he was ever as brilliant as her, it was undeniable his reach. His influence.

He Apparated, an alley materializing in front of him and blinding him with street lamps. Grimmauld Place.

A group of costumed children passed by on the street, shepherded by shivering adults. Harry trailed behind them, unnoticed. It was quite busy, tonight, every porchlight on and awaiting more trick or treaters.

Except one. Harry stepped up to Number Twelve and knocked heavily.

 _Shit._ He realized too late what he’d done, and the only solace in the sudden wailing from inside was that none of the Halloween crowd around him were able to hear it.

He cast two _muffliatos_ on the doorstep anyway. Draco was halfway down the steps when Harry threw the door open. They stared at each other for a shocked second before Harry got his wits and slammed the door behind him.

_“THE HALLS OF MY FATHER’S HOME! TAINTED BY MUD BLOOD AND TRAITORS TO THE LINE OF BLACK – “_

Draco leaned over the banister, looking down the hall where the heavy black curtains were billowing to either side of a truly horrendous portrait. He pointed his wand.

_“Silencio!”_

_“ – FILTH! FILTH! STAINS ON THE MAGIC RACE – “_

Harry darted forward, remembering how Hermione had instructed him to shut her up should this ever happen. The old woman in the portrait was clearly beyond reason, wailing and rocking back and forth in whatever chair she had been painted into.

A _langlock_ jinx flew past his ear, slamming ineffectively against the portrait. It only seemed to enrage the occupant.

“That doesn’t work!” He shouted over his shoulder, gripping the curtains.

_“HALF-BREEDS! MADRASI! IMPOTENT SONS OF COWARDS AND MUGGLES – “_

Draco was right beside him. Together they tried to pull the curtains closed – which was impossibly difficult to do – while taking ear-splitting abuse from the old hag.

“It’s not working,” Draco grunted, ramming his shoulder into Harry’s as he yanked on the curtain. “What – _I’m a Black, you old bint!”_

_“SCOURGE OF THE PUREST BLOOD OF SALAZAR, DILUTED BLOOD OF WHORES – “_

Harry gripped his curtain and reached past Draco’s shoulders, expending massive effort to force them together. Something gave, and it worked.

The woman fell immediately silent.

Draco pulled his arm free and shoved Harry sideways, toward the kitchen.

“Why?” He asked sharply.

Harry set the heavy tote on the table, ears ringing. “I didn’t think. I was just knocking to be polite.”

“Why are you _here?”_

Harry turned. Draco was clearly still winded from what little effort he’d just expended, leaning heavily on the wall.

“Food.” Harry nodded to the bag. “Leftovers. I didn’t want them.”

Draco looked to the table. Something caught his eye, and he came closer. He pulled the bottle of wine out and examined the label, eyes and cheeks more hollowed out than before.

“Leftover from where?”

“The Weasleys do a dinner every Sunday.”

Draco dug through the contents, stopping at something and dislodging it clumsily from the jenga block of containers. The beans. He gave them a look Harry previously thought he only reserved for human beings – utter disgust.

But he ate it. He tore the lid off and sat, Conjuring a fork and shoveling down large mouthfuls. Then the potatoes. And the bread. In desperate, almost animal-like motions. And with no reserve. It was like Harry wasn’t even there.

“Doesn’t Hermione bring you groceries?” He had to ask, gathering the empty containers and Scourgifying as Draco tossed them aside. “Where are those?”

Draco tore the meat off a chicken bone, no visible chewing involved before he swallowed and took the next bite. Not unlike how Ron usually ate, but that was Ron. This was prim, proper Draco. A blue-blood in the most Dickensian way.

“This is disgusting,” he pointed out, just in case Draco needed to hear it. “No wonder she wanted me to bring it.”

That brought him to a halt. Draco dropped the bone and pushed the container away, eyes wide. “Did _she_ give you this?”

He said it sharply, urgently. Like Hermione might have _done_ something to it.

“What does it matter?”

“Did she?”

“No. It’s _leftovers.”_

Draco stood, holding his hands out in front of him as he walked to the tap to wash them off.

“I don’t really think poisoning is her style,” Harry said. “Anyone who wanted to do you in would just leave you alone here. Let you starve yourself to death.”

“I’ve eaten everything.”

“Yes.” Harry looked at the empty tubs. “You have.”

“No,” Draco snapped. He shook his hands dry and picked his wand up from the table. A flick, and the neck of the wine bottle sliced right off the body, cracking into pieces on the table and spilling a good amount. “I’m not ‘starving myself’. I’ve eaten every flake of general store oatmeal that Granger dumped here.”

“Sorry, where else does one buy oatmeal?”

Draco picked up the bottle and drank from it. Gulped. A rivulet of red ran down his chin before he brusquely wiped it away, leaving the kitchen without a word.

Harry followed him up to the potion room. It smelled strongly of burning tar and cinnamon. More of tar. There was a pile of throw pillows on the floor. Books and stray bits of notes everywhere. Draco threw himself down just as his little stopwatch went off, setting the wine carefully aside and unscrewing a large jar of (Harry took a big step back) angry-looking insects.

Three wasp-like bugs of a dangerous red color. They buzzed around incessantly, slamming into the side of the glass and emitting burps of black gas when they did.

Without so much as an _impedimenta,_ Draco stuck his hand through the top and back out. One of the wasps sat on his index finger, wings flapping. Harry sucked in a breath.

Draco screwed the cap on with his free hand. The wasp on his finger flexed its thorax, and Harry _swore_ it looked right at him.

Then it was gone. Draco flicked his wrist and flung it into the cauldron. Despite the thick viscosity of the pure black potion, it sank right under. Draco clicked the watch off and spun it.

“Was there anything else?”

“Not necessarily,” Harry said, approaching to inspect the remaining insects. Draco huffed audibly when he sat on the floor and picked it up. “What are these?”

“ _Ospanecken_. Hornets.”

“Is that German?” Harry peered close at another cloud of dark fog.

“Slovenian,” Draco said, after a pause. “Their breath renders smaller insects incapable of movement.”

“It didn’t sting you.”

“It did.”

Harry looked up. With annoyed concession, Draco reached out his hand and wrapped it briefly around Harry’s forearm.

The touch was gone before Harry could even be shocked by it, and by the time he could he was too distracted by the _cold_. Draco’s skin was like ice.

“The pain is dulled,” he said, ignoring Harry’s nervous silence. He raised his finger, showing off a faint red circle with a clear sting mark.

“Why? And why don’t you start a fire?” Harry pointed his wand at the grate. “You’re pureblood. You should be warm in this house.”

More wine. Harry wondered how he didn’t cut his mouth open on the broken glass rim.

“Did you see the moon tonight?” Draco asked.

“Yeah.”

“It’s November tomorrow, which means when it’s full it will be the Dead Moon. Or one of mourning, depending on who you ask.”

He stared into the fire Harry had just lit, eyes wide in a manic way as he took another sip. “I never drank as much as I should. I never cared about mealtimes, or where I slept. There was only the work.”

“Draco, I think you’re exhausted.” Clinically, perhaps. Harry looked around at the scattered books. “When was the last time you slept?”

Draco shut his eyes, swaying slightly where he sat. Drunk, or rapidly approaching it. “Sleep,” he sighed. “I’ll miss sleep the most. I haven’t dreamed in almost a week.”

“You’re talking nonsense.”

“Forgive me,” he said, sounding sincere. “It’s the wine.”

“Clearly.”

Draco fixed his eyes on Harry. “Lunar potions are notoriously difficult to master. The brewer is prone to mood swings, lack of focus, fatigue.”

“I know,” Harry murmured. And he actually did – he had read some of that book Draco had given him. He just didn’t know it was _this_ bad.

“Well, I’m not just the brewer. I’m also the subject. It’s the binding magic that makes this so personal. And I’m taking the brunt of it to keep Dolohov and Macnair none the wiser to it.”

“The brunt of it?”

“The _side effects,_ Potter. You are the worst kind of layman.”

Harry snorted. “So you’re freezing and you can’t feel pain. _That’s_ the side effect?”

“I suppose so. I haven’t tested it too far.”

“You look like you’re dying.”

Draco smiled at him. “How wonderfully honest of you.” He tilted the bottle back. Harry watched his pale throat work in a swallow. “I’m afraid it’s not going to get any better.”

“You liked Molly Weasley’s cooking well enough. I suppose I’ll have to keep bringing it by,” Harry challenged, raising an eyebrow. Draco’s lips parted, smiling wide enough to show his teeth. The inner parts of his mouth were stained red.

“You’re being hilarious, Potter. And you don’t even know it.”

Harry liked his smile, scary though it was. “You’re no use to anyone like this. I left you the Cloak. Go for a walk or something.” He hesitated. “Didn’t you say your friend lives in the city? Pansy?”

“We aren’t schoolchildren anymore,” Draco said. He held out the bottle, frowning when Harry shook his head. “I don’t need homecooked meals and friendship to get me by.”

One of the wasps made a sudden lunge toward the side of the jar, succeeding in toppling one step closer to Harry’s knee. He shuddered and pushed it away, crinkling a newspaper as he did. The _Prophet_ from a few days previous, opened to the sports page.

“Are you following the season?” Harry asked, surprised.

Draco looked down at the large photo of the Falmouth Falcons after their recent win. “Of course.”

Harry blinked at his wistfulness. “You’re a Falcons man?”

“What gives you that impression?”

“It’s earmarked.”

“I only wanted to remember the date for their next game. I missed the last one.”

Draco was slurring his words a little. Harry ignored that. “I listened to it on the radio. Conner Broft nearly lost the game tackling one of Bachory’s Beaters five hundred yards up.”

Draco stared at him in a way that suggested he wasn’t entirely listening, tilting his head to the side questioningly. Harry looked right back, enjoying what would probably be a one-time occurrence, and something Draco would heavily regret. It wasn’t as though Harry _forced_ him to drink so much.

He gripped the bottle like he knew what Harry was thinking. “Five hundred? That’s well out of bounds for a Beater.”

“Well, he’d just taken a Bludger to the head. He thought he was flying lower, but he just so happened to be heading straight for the Snitch. Broft just took him out to avoid a Cockney penalty.”

“Smart. Though even if the Beater _had_ caught the snitch, a Cockney penalty resets position. Broft should’ve gone for it instead of hedging on a tackle.”

“Well, think about it.” Harry set the paper aside. “You’re up there, five hundred yards, it’s already _dark_ out – and a player comes out of nowhere. You don’t even know that it’s a Beater, or that he’s concussed. All you know is that he’s going for the Snitch and they haven’t called out of bounds yet. All eyes in the stadium are on you – wouldn’t you go for a bit of drama?”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Of _course_ you would say that. But you’ve forgotten about the entire point of the Greenfield recovery maneuver – “

They went back and forth with their arguments, Draco continuously alluding to plays and history and Harry relying only on his gut and limited experience. It was engaging, like talking about Quidditch always was, but Harry couldn’t believe how easy it was to talk to Draco about it. And how clearly Draco _loved_ Quidditch. Almost as fiercely as Ron.

“I have a signed Quaffle in my bedroom back home,” he said. The conversation had led him back, slumped against a chair with his legs askew. He balanced the wine bottle on one knee, tipping its weight side to side. Harry had wedged one of the pillows behind him to do the same. He wasn’t drunk, but the fumes and company made him a little lightheaded. Contact high.

“Josef Wronski himself,” Draco went on. Harry knew how important _that_ name was. “It was a gift from Pansy back in fifth year. Arguably the best gift I’ve ever received.”

“That’s a high threshold. I’d settle for playing just once on a real pitch.”

Draco threw him a look. “You do realize you could make that happen at the drop of a hat.”

Harry made a dubious sound. Draco answered it with an annoyed one.

“One owl to the head of Magical Game and Sports and you’d have the Trillenium Stadium all to yourself whenever you want. Not to mention Ginny Weasley’s connections. Fresh Snitches and state of the art brooms.”

Draco painted a convincing picture. Flying above the raised stands in the largest stadium in the continent. He _must_ have done something like it before, and invited the Weasleys. It was the best possible use of celebrity.

And fathoms above yard rules at the Burrow. He and Ginny could have a real competition without George slowing them down.

Draco checked the potion, and then the stopwatch. Neither required his attention, thankfully. Harry wasn’t sure that his state of inebriation lent itself to detailed potion work.

“Speaking of Ginny,” Harry said. Draco looked at him. “I’m going to see her play in a few weeks. It’ll be my first professional game.”

He nodded, toying at the wine label with his fingers. “The Harpies have a good record going in. They’re favorites for the League Cup. But the Kestrels have a new Seeker that won the Cup two years in a row for Ravenclaw – “

“When was the last time you saw a game? In person?” Harry interrupted.

Draco smiled like he’d been caught. “A long time.”

“You miss it.”

“More than almost anything.” He nodded to himself and raised the bottle in a silent toast before finishing it. “To Quidditch.”

“Now who’s being dramatic?” Harry chided. “What’s the worst that could happen if you went?”

“Well.” Draco exhaled indulgently. “Assuming I found a ticket, and assuming I made it through the wards…someone could try to kill me, women and children would run screaming, foreign Ministries would pull funding from the League – “

“You’re forgetting one _very_ important scenario,” Harry said, talking faster than he was thinking. “You show up with Harry Potter, no one says a word edgewise.”

Draco’s lips parted. Harry could see the _half_ second it took for logic to overtake wine.

“Funny.”

“Yeah. It’d be a right laugh.” Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Merlin, Potter,” Draco set the bottle aside, rubbing his eyes. “You’re serious.”

“We don’t have to talk to each other. You don’t even have to sit near me. But I could get you in.”

“We can’t even walk through the Ministry together without making the papers.”

Harry shrugged it off, even though he had a point. “Fuck the papers. _When_ will you have another chance like this? The most famous person in all of Wizarding Britain forgot that he _hates_ you.”

Draco snorted, and then hid his face in his hands. It wasn’t until his shoulders started shaking and he snorted again that Harry realized he had well and truly made Draco _laugh._ It broke him, and soon they were both snickering.

“Ow,” Draco wheezed, clutching his chest. “Fuck, Potter. Shut up.”

“You _snort_ when you laugh.”

Draco fell to his side and turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Every few seconds a near-silent burst of laughter disturbed the air. He moved an arm up under his head, the lean stretch of muscles drying up the laughter in Harry’s throat.

“Quidditch, eh?” Draco said to the rafters. “Alright.”

“What?”

“What have I got to lose?” Draco smiled at him, which temporarily lifted the pallor from his skin. “Of course, I’ll deny all knowledge of this conversation in the morning.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

Draco shook his head, laughed, and then got serious. The wistfulness returned, and then deepened into what looked like genuine sadness. “Do you promise, Potter?”

Harry nodded. “I do.”

______________________

Dark. Cold.

Alone.

Harry gasped awake someplace unfamiliar with the panic of a nightmare hot on his heels. The loud, unwelcome noise only added to his confusion.

The fire was little more than embers, and Harry extremities were numb with cold. The sound continued, high and rattling.

“Draco,” he muttered, sitting up on an elbow. His glasses were nowhere to be found and the pillows he’d fallen asleep on top of were squished flat. “The watch.”

Draco, laying prone on the other side of the cauldron, didn’t move. Harry leaned over and shook his socked foot, repeating his name. He refused to be the one to tell Ron they’d lost three months of work because Harry had gotten Draco too drunk to stir.

“The potion,” he said louder. “Wake up. Or – or tell me what to do – “

Draco sat up sharply, eyes still closed, brow pinched. “Don’t touch anything.”

“If it just needs another bug – “

“ _Definitely_ don’t touch anything,” Draco yawned widely, planting a hand on Harry’s chest and shoving him back. “Shut that thing off.”

Harry looked around, which was fruitless. He could only see in firelit streaks and hazy blurs. The sound was centered somewhere to his left, but all he felt was pillows.

“Are you _serious?”_

“I can’t see anything!”

“Useless,” he muttered. Something splashed and bubbled. “ _Accio_ stopwatch.”

Just as Harry closed his fingers around it, the watch flew through them and into Draco’s hand. The alarm went silent.

“Summon my glasses for me,” Harry requested, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “And maybe my wand.”

A hand slid down his arm, depositing glasses into the palm of his hand. He put them on gratefully, locating his wand stuck against the couch leg. Draco resumed his position on the floor.

“What did you do to me?” He groaned. “I haven’t been drunk since – “

He stopped talking, going very still. Headrush, probably. Or nausea. Then, “ _Tempus.”_

Faint numbers appeared above his face. Harry had to discern them at a backwards angle. _4:52._

“Damn. You should go,” he said, slowly pushing back up. “It’s not good for us to sleep in here.”

Harry could barely even smell the tar anymore. His nostrils did burn a bit. And his fingertips were still numb, even as he huffed his breath on to them. “What about you.”

“I’m going to bed.”

It came to Harry a second later, quite embarrassingly late. Of course Draco slept in one of the bedrooms. Harry had just sort of assumed, based on the state of the sitting room…   
“Alright. See you.” He hesitated at the door, watching Draco gather a few books together, stumbling slightly. “Last night was a good time.”

“I’m sure it must have been.”

“Really. If you ever wanna talk Quidditch…or anything…you can drop by mine. I’d love to have you.”

Draco froze, one of the books toppling to the floor. Not exactly the reaction Harry had hoped for, but one he might be able to work with.

_____________________

He rode the next two days on a bit of a high. Childish, but fun. Getting Draco drunk had been a happy accident, but it had revealed something interesting: their conversation had flowed too naturally and easily – the wine hadn’t made it easier for Draco to talk to him, it had made it _harder_ for Draco to _not_ talk to him.

Harry stuck that thought in the back of his head to ponder.

Wednesday morning dawned dull and very cold. The first thing Harry did was go to his window and look up at the sky. All of the mysticism surrounding this moon – the _dead moon_ – had him half-believing it should be looming over the city like a bad omen. And maybe it was, but the cloud cover was in full London fashion. Thick and creeping.

Castor said something, his hiss muffled by the bedsheets. He had been cross when Harry showed up in the wee hours of Monday, complaining about cold and darkness smells.

“But you like the darkness,” Harry had teased. Castor’s favorite hiding spot was beneath the armchair.

“ _It appears_ master _does as well.”_

Which seemed to imply Castor knew where he had been, and with whom. Who knew snakes could be so catty?

Harry pulled on a jumper, coaxing Castor over his shoulders and starting the morning with tea and signing his name on a tall pile of papers Ron must have dropped off while he was sleeping.

 _Please sign,_ he’d scribbled on a torn scrap of paper. _‘HP’ will do, none of that curlicue business from before. The Wizengamot clerks have started calling you Walt Disney, whoever that is. Sounds like an insult._

It started snowing around ten, building against the windowpanes in powdery, sifting piles. The first of the year, though according to Teddy Hogwarts had been covered in it for almost a week. Harry took a break to write him about it, wondering how to broach the news that Castor wasn’t a house pest, but a long term resident.

“You’ll like Teddy,” he said out loud while he wrote. “But you have to be nicer to him than you are to everyone else. Even me.”

“ _Master’s offspring is surely no threat.”_

“Surely not,” Harry agreed.

He chewed the tip of the sugar quill, wondering what Draco was doing to prepare for that night. Eating something, hopefully. Staying warm.

“I don’t know why Draco’s so afraid of you,” Harry muttered. “I wish he wasn’t. It would do him some good to get out of that house.”

Castor made a haughty noise, his nose stuck into Harry’s mug.

He left his letter on a corner of the table, plenty of blank space at the bottom to directly answer whatever Teddy said in his next correspondence. An owl flew into his window almost the moment he thought it, making him jump. It wasn’t Todrick.

“Pig?” Harry asked incredulously, reaching for the lower pane. Something hit him hard on the cheekbone.

 _“Down,”_ Castor hissed writhing wildly. Harry, shocked, dumped him and felt at his cheek. Not a bite, thank Merlin. Castor had only head-butted him. His tail disappeared beneath the armchair as Harry pulled window open for Pig, who fluttered madly before settling on his shoulder and sticking a note against his cheek, like he’d seen what had happened and was trying to offer comfort.

“Calm down,” Harry tutted to the both of them, pulling the string free and peering at the paper. “Oh, bloody – is he fucking joking?”

It only said, in George’s manic script, _emergency._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck. JK. Rowling!!!
> 
> But thanks for reading, everyone! Pls leave comments if you like it so far!


	9. Stone's Throw

Harry hurriedly threw some clothes on, Flooing directly into George’s flat with his wand drawn.

“George?”

A half-eaten breakfast sat on the sitting room table. The coffee was still warm. Harry checked the rooms before moving down the spiral steps toward the main store. He’d sent Pig, so the letter must have come from here.

It was early, not business hours yet. Some shoppers milled by the exterior windows, and there was no one behind the front desk.

But there _were_ voices. Harry didn’t call out, just moved silently toward the back wall of displays. There was a door there, ajar, with a plaque that read _Employees Only – Trespassers Will Be Evaporated._

“ – not tell you again, Mr. Weasley. This is your fifth and final warning – “

“ – is it the fifth?” George’s voice answered. Bored. “I rather thought it was the third.”

“ – and don’t think paying off the fines gets you out of legal trouble,” continued the first voice. Male, older. “You’re still facing possible trial for failure to – “

“So sorry,” George cut him off. “I believe there’s someone loitering just outside. Who’s there?!”

The door pulled wide open, George standing there as though nothing in the world was wrong. “Harry Potter!” He cried, unnecessarily loud. “What are you _doing_ here, old chap?”

It was an office, Harry saw over his shoulder. Full to the brim with Wheezes merchandize in varying states of packaging. And a man - wearing official looking robes and a towering hat. Not quite as towering as his thunderous expression, which quickly melted into shock as he saw Harry.

“I – I could ask you the same thing,” Harry replied, stowing his wand. “Is this really an emergency?” He muttered in a lower tone, already surmising that it very much was not.

George turned to stare at the man, then a very suspicious look of shock crossed his face.

“Oh! I completely forgot - I see what you’re getting at, Harry, but I’m afraid this is rather important. I’ll have to cancel our meeting. You see, Lou from Business Regulations has decided to drop by – “

“No!” Lou said, taking off his hat and holding it to his chest. “I had no – I didn’t realize. Of course, we can reschedule this, erm, meeting.”

Harry moved his eyes between them, feeling a frown coming on.

George shook his head. “Please, Lou, it’s only Harry. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind being the one to reschedule. Though he is _very_ busy – “ He turned just enough to give Harry a wink. Harry pursed his lips.

“I insist,” Lou said, sidling by George to exit the office. He kept his back to the wall as though Harry were a leper. “I – really – I didn’t expect to – ah.”

He gave a short bow and backed away, placing his hat back on his head. “Sometime next week, then. Sorry for any inconvenience, Mr. P – _ah –_ Potter.”

Harry couldn’t gather enough of a wit to answer him, or even smile.

“My giddy aunt,” George said when the door swung shut again. “I _cannot_ believe that worked.”

“Did you just _use_ me to get out of a meeting?”

“That git has been _hounding_ me ever since the Celestina Caramels dropped.” He stood at a giant calendar stuck to the wall, using a pen to write _LOU AGAIN_ under November Third. “Apparently I’ve committed copyright infringement or some such shite. Though Celestina Warbeck doesn’t _own_ the name Celestina, now does she? And the magic only _approximates_ her singing voice. It’s not as though I’m using her image. Fuck’s sake.”

Harry decided his outrage was obvious enough, and George wouldn’t really care either way. “Should I even ask?”

“No need.” He spun on his heels, clicking his tongue. “Though we _should_ discuss the payment of these fines. They’re rather steep.”

“Payment?”

“You _do_ own most of our shares, Harry, mate. A rising tide lifts all boats, and I need to buy time to make a formal complaint against the Ministry.”

He shooed Harry out, shutting and locking the door. “You don’t recall, but something similar happened with the, erm, _adult_ line of Daydream Charm. But Britain’s pornography laws are farcicle as it is, so arguing that was a walk in the park.”

“George,” Harry cut in, following back upstairs. “Don’t do that again.”

“Why not? You were _brilliant._ The last time this happened I had to fake my own death to avoid that prick.”

“ _George,”_ Harry said again. George stopped at the door that led to his flat. “I was really scared. I would have sent a Patronus to the Aurors if I could – “

“One time thing,” George assured, squeezing his shoulder. “Promise. It’s not every day you have a Harry Potter at your disposal, though. I had to give it a try. Breakfast?”

Pig was picking at the uneaten plate. The flight across London and right back must have exhausted the old thing, but Harry couldn’t have left him at the house with Castor.

“He said something about a trial?”

George sighed, kicking off his shoes and shrugging out of the orange robes. He was wearing pajamas underneath. “The Wizengamot always agrees with me, in the end. They just like to kick up a fuss to make it look like they don’t need me.”

Harry made his own tea, disgruntled at having to leave his behind. “And why do they need you?”

He felt George looking at him. “This store is what kept Diagon Alley alive after the war. I’m literally the _only_ reason any young people ever come out here. Without me, they’d all be at Side Ward or K. Atty Corner. It’s all…clothing shops and potion supplies out here. Old people stuff.”

Harry didn’t very much trust George’s tea supply. Possibly charmed to turn his tongue to taffy, and of course all loose-leaf. He pushed aside the boxes and picked a harmless-looking can of Lavender. “It seems like you’re doing well. No need to make more trouble for yourself. Wasn’t the Hogwarts thing bad enough?”

“Pah!” George said, cooking toast with his wand and scooping beans from the stove pot, bumping Harry’s shoulder. “That wasn’t traced back to me. Staff just assumed. Could just as well have been Skele-Gro. Here.”

Harry took the plate and his tea to the table. George joined him.

“Have you talked to Ron?” Harry asked. George paused.

“Why?”

He was exactly as weird about it as Ron had been. “You two just look alike. It’s almost like you’re brothers, or something.”

George crossed his arms. His face was empty of any emotion, which was strange. “So it was you.”

“What was?”

“Ron… _owled_ me last night.”

Harry nursed his tea, fascinated at George’s tone. “Why is that odd?”

“Ron doesn’t _owl_. Not anymore.”

“Sorry?”

George’s nostrils flared, much like Ron’s when he was annoyed, and ignored Harry’s question. “He asked if I wanted to get dinner Friday night. I assume you know why.”

That last part was accusatory. Harry weighed his options before speaking.

“I….” He took a breath. “He’s got some stuff going on, I suppose, and I don’t think I’m the person he should be talking to…at present. Or ever. So I just…suggested he talk to you. Or whoever.”

George made a funny face. “What.”

“I dunno! It just seems like me and Ron have a very… _strange_ relationship. The three of us, actually, Hermione included.”

“Is that so?” George asked. Harry caught the hint of a smile. “So you sent him to _me_. Because I’m so incredibly empathetic.”

“I just told him that my perspective is shit, and he should talk to some other people sometimes. About stuff. And don’t turn this around – he’s _your_ brother. Why can’t you get dinner?”

The almost-smile disappeared. “So many questions. I miss when we were _both_ miserable bastards.”

Harry didn’t buy it – George _loved_ his family. He positively fawned over Victoire and wrote to Teddy more often than Harry got to. And he had Lee!

“Sorry,” he said.

George leaned forward on an elbow. “Well, don’t _pout_. I’ll go to bloody dinner with Ron. What’s his issue about?”

“Erm,” Harry said.

“Hermione’s not _pregnant?”_

“No.”

George gasped. “Divorce?”

“ _No,_ ” Harry snapped. He was trying to _avoid_ that. “Nothing that serious.”

Hopefully.

He wasn’t even sure Ron would bring up the Hermione stuff with George. Harry just wanted him to be able to have a meaningful conversation with someone who knew him better than Harry did at the moment. He was trying to be a good friend and George was making it awfully difficult.

“Maybe you’ve got a point,” he said in a new tone of voice, frowning at the table. “Your perspective _is_ shit.”

“Pardon?”

George lunged up and around the table, clapping Harry on the shoulder as he tried to stand.

“What - ?”

“Harry.” He guffawed, leaning over Harry’s shoulder. “D’you wanna tell me why you’re trying _not_ to think about Draco Malfoy’s arse?”

Stunned, Harry looked down at his tea. The swills had risen to the surface, spelling out very clearly exactly what George had just said.

 _DRACO MALFOY’S ARSE_.

“No, I’m – I wasn’t – “

“My magic don’t lie,” George interrupted. “ _Malfoy!_ When did you even _meet_ him? Isn’t he cursebreaking in the Alps or something?”

“He’s working with us,” Harry mumbled, sticking his finger in the hot tea and swirling it. The letters came right back. “Is _all_ your tea charmed?”

George straightened, taking two steps back. “ _Working_ with you? You mean the Aurors.”

“He’s in London.” Harry put his hand over the mug so he didn’t have to see the words anymore. “It made the papers, didn’t you see?”

The nostrils flared again. “I have to read the _papers_ to find out that Malfoy is working with the Aurors? What the fuck?”

Harry winced. “I didn’t know it was so important to you.”

“What’s he _doing_ for you? Does this have to do with - with Dolohov?”

“…yeah, it does. He’s, erm, trying to locate him using their Dark Marks.”

“What?!” George yelled, throwing his hands up. “That’s _way_ more interesting than you losing your memories! Why did nobody _tell_ me _!?”_

“It’s a secret!” Harry defended, standing to dump his tea. “This is the last time I have breakfast at _your_ house.”

“Seriously. What sort of magic is it? New, I expect. You know, I was toying with the idea of Temporary Tattoo Marks – “

“It’s nothing the Ministry would approve of you using, I can say that much. And maybe if you didn’t avoid your brother, he’d have mentioned it to you – “

“You fancy him,” George accused, switching tact. Probably because he knew Harry had a point. “You fancy Malfoy.”

“No.”

“You think Malfoy has a nice arse.”

He set it down on the countertop, watching water drops build at the base of it. “Maybe.”

“Bloody hell.” George laughed, running his hands over his face. “This is… _so much_ information to get in the span of a minute. Lee will _shit.”_

Harry looked up. “I didn’t think you knew Draco at all.”

“Oh, so he’s ‘Draco’ now?” George asked, but appeared to give it some thought. “Knocked him across the face a few times, once. I mean, he was an _annoying_ little git. A right terror, to hear you all tell it…and also a Death Eater, y’know. Can’t be forgetting that.”

“Right.”

“But _you_ ,” he shook his head, laughing in his throat. “You _hate_ him.”

“So I’m told.” Harry leaned back against the granite. “I…we’ve been getting on. I think. Working together.”

“Getting on.” George literally scratched his head, unable to comprehend it. “Huh. Alright.”

Harry snorted.

“No, really. Go after it, I s’pose? It’s not like dating was ever gonna be _easy_ for you.”

“I didn’t say anything about dating.”

George checked his watch. “I’ve gotta go open the store. Just.” He closed his eyes for a second. “ _Please_ let me be there if you ever mention the arse thing to Ron. I really will beg.”

Harry didn’t dignify that with a response. “If you really need the money, I’ll go to Gringotts while I’m here. So long as it’s _reasonable_.”

That made George smile. “I’ll write it down.”

___________________________

Harry finished up the signatures and took the papers to the Ministry. Dean and Seamus saw him in the hall, stopping for a brief conversation about the missing Kneazel. Apparently it had been found making a nest underneath some Dumpsters in Side Ward.

“Curry lunch?” Dean invited him, throwing a thumb to the lifts. “Gallahey’s meeting us.”

“Um, no, that’s alright thanks. Thought I’d eat with Ron.”

Two more people said hello to him – from the Wizengamot Admin office, it looked like. Harry smiled to them, fully aware that the interaction wouldn’t have happened two months ago. His demeanor had changed enough for simple passerby to have noticed, and react accordingly. Bizarre.

Ron was in his cubicle, scratching away at some important-looking document. He sat up and smiled when Harry handed him the stack.

“Cheers! Thanks, mate. Hey – am I completely mucking up the semicolon here?”

Harry was the last person to ask. He pulled over a chair and they worked it out together, spending quite a bit of time bickering about grammar. Ron didn’t hesitate to point out Harry’s lack of memories. After they had tracked down a grammar guide in Élise’s desk, Ron ordered lunch.

“Full moon tonight,” he commented as they ate. “Only two left.”

“Yeah.” Harry brushed away the crumbs from their sarneys. “If Draco makes it that long.”

“What do you mean?” Ron pulled his draft back over (correspondence with the German Head Auror, written under Harry’s name for information on some case or another), making some last marks.

“He doesn’t look good, Ron. It’s making him sick or something.”

“Well, he can join the club,” Ron muttered. “Anyway, Grimmauld Place – bad as it is – _can’t_ be worse than those safehouses he’s been living in all these years. It must be like a vacation for him.”

“Have you _seen_ the house he grew up in?” The Manor was Buckingham Palace compared to Grimmauld.

Ron paused in loading up his typewriter. “Have _you?”_

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. Shit.

“Hey?” Ron said, catching onto his silence.

He didn’t want to lie. And telling Ron what Hermione had asked him to go to the Manor _for_ would very much fall into the _coming between them_ hole he had vowed to stay out of.

“Yeah,” he said carefully. “About a week ago.”

Ron’s eyebrows rose sharply. “You went to the _Manor?_ With Malfoy?”

“It was sort of a lark, really. He needed to go get something, but didn’t want to go alone.”

There. It was definitely a lie, but Harry could live with it. Ron worked through it with his expression, finally landing on baffled. “What’s it like?”

The question caught Harry by surprise. “I mean, nice? Posh as fuck. All that. But also…empty?”

A line formed on Ron’s brow. “Most of it got repossessed by the Ministry. After the raids, I mean. Probably unfairly – even my Mum had something to say about it, but you know how she is about heirlooms. You and I were only trainees while that was happening, though.”

Ron’s sympathy caught Harry even further by surprise. “There are House Elves there. Taking care of the house?”

“Oh!” Ron quit fiddling with the ink. “Yeah. That’s a thing now. They’re just Elves, technically.”

“Good to know.”

“Sorry. Didn’t realize that was one of the things you’d forgot.”

“And what does it have to do with Hermione? Draco said something about her.”

“It’s a lot,” he said, and sighed when Harry only shrugged. “’Mione started an organization that sends House Elves – _Elves –_ out to old historical landmarks. Castles and stuff. Turns out, their magic can fix almost _anything_. Even, like, ancient paintings. She’s been trying for _years_ to get the muggle governments to let them at the museum collections, but they won’t allow it. S’pose there’s no real explanation for the Mona Lisa turning up brand new.”

“That’s… _incredible.”_

Ron, long desensitized to this news, only nodded.

After lunch, he was too busy to chat and Harry certainly wasn’t going to seek out Hermione. He went home, did laundry, watered the pumpkins (easing off the MagiGro for now, as it was over a month until Teddy was due back and they were already straining out of their pots).

Penning a letter to Hagrid took a while. Harry filled him in on Castor’s settling in and left an open invite for him to drop by whenever. Hopefully that wouldn’t seem too out of place; Ron and Hermione made it seem like they were fairly close. And Harry’s initial reaction to the snake must have seemed terribly out of sorts to him.

After all that, it was only late afternoon. Anxiety settled at the bottom of his stomach watching the sun sink lower. He re-read Teddy’s most recent letter – a four page account of Halloween weekend at Hogwarts. The ghosts had put on a performance of Macbeth and McGonagall had organized a massive scavenger hunt in the dungeons. Of course, those two events got a paragraph each and the other three and a half pages were an account of the dinner spread. Harry marked down what Teddy appeared to like the most. He’d look for a recipe book the next time he was in Diagon.

At eight o’clock, the fireplace _whooshed_ and he rushed out of the kitchen.

It was only Hermione. Not much of a comfort, but she didn’t appear to have come to argue with him, because Ron came in after her, the both of them in sweatpants and jumpers.

“What’s this?”

“Company,” Hermione said. “If you want it. I’m too keyed up to sleep.”

“Because of the moon?”

“Moon set is at 10 a.m.. Draco’s in it now.” She held up her hands. “But I brought DVDs and popcorn, so maybe we can wait it out together.”

There was hope in her voice, maybe even some sort of apology. Harry looked at Ron.

“What?” He asked defensively. Harry raised his eyebrows. “I’m allowed to be concerned! If it’s as bad as the two of you say he’s essentially at death’s _door_.”

Something like relief eased the tension in Harry’s chest. “What DVDs?” He asked.

Hermione smiled.

_________________________________

The third movie was about to end, its characters wrapping up loose ends and making confessions of love. It was bad enough to put Ron to sleep. Harry wished he could do the same.

“You’ve been reading up,” Hermione said quietly.

 _The Moon and You_ still sat on the coffee table, marked halfway through with a receipt from the corner store. “Trying to.”

“Why?”

He snorted. “ _You’re_ asking me why I’m reading a book? To learn!”

She smiled weakly, the television reflecting in her eyes. “Why _that_ one?”

“Draco gave it to me. And…and he was babbling the other night about the potion affecting him. And the moon cycles having certain meanings.”

“They do. And it is. You felt how cold he was?”

Harry nodded, wondering how _she_ had come about touching Draco’s skin.

“He brought up…” she paused, wincing. “He apologized to me, when I was there Saturday. For everything that happened at the Manor.”

“Had he never done that before?”

“No.” She looked over at Ron, his head bent almost ninety degrees to the back of the sofa. “We haven’t said more than a passing word to each other since school. But…I think he meant it. I don’t know if it was only the Mourning Moon talking. I’d like to think it wasn’t.”

Harry stared at the fireplace. Draco had been quite drunk during their conversation, so there was no way of knowing if it was the moon or the alcohol talking then, either. “We talked about Quidditch.”

“Did you?”

“I – “ He hesitated, abandoning the comment that it hadn’t felt like the first time. Instead, “I’m the master of his wand. Aren’t I?”

Hermione stilled. “What?”

“Come off it,” he whispered.

After a moment of silence, she dropped the pretense. “Oh, alright. Yes, I imagine you are.”

“How?”

“You took it from him. After we were captured by the Snatchers, we fought our way out of the Manor. I’m not certain how you got ahold of it, but there it was. Yours was – was destroyed, so you kept it. Worked well enough.”

“Destroyed? “

“You managed to repair it with the Elder Wand.”

“And gave Draco’s back to him?”

She frowned at something. “You never told me you did, and I assumed you just got rid of it.”

Harry winced. “Wouldn’t that be cruel?”

“Well…I wouldn’t guess that it would be an easy wand to work with, with someone else having mastered it. Unless you allowed him to win it back from you. But clearly, you think you’re still the master?”

Harry explained what had happened at Grimmauld Place. The wand responding to him without having been asked. Hermione still looked faintly uneasy, but not surprised.

“It must work for him, still,” she said slowly, “for his potion work to be as good as it is.”

“Hm,” Harry said. It was one small question answered. Draco hadn’t known Harry by _legilimens_. He’d known Harry because his wand did.

Ron punctuated their silence with a snore.

______________________________

The first light of dawn forced his eyes open and brought to attention his aching neck. He and Hermione had slumped toward Ron like dominoes. He sat up and rubbed his forehead. They had been talking, trying to stay awake. Hermione regaled him with stories from their Third Year - time-turners and hippogriffs.

Now she was sleeping soundly. Ron had wound his arm around her in the night, his long legs propped on the table.

“ _Castor?”_ Harry asked, trying to be quiet. Parseltongue was a pretty much one-volume-fits-all language. A tongue flicked out from under the armchair. He’d hidden away from them the night before – probably hanging out near the heating vents in Harry’s bathroom.

“ _Don’t scare Ron and Hermione,”_ Harry told him. He considered taking Castor with him through the Floo, but that was quite dangerous. Animals were like babies, that way. You couldn’t Floo or Apparate them without the proper precautions. _“I’ll be right back.”_

He made certain Hermione was still asleep before pulling on Ron’s abandoned robe and stepping onto his front stoop. The married couple next door were on their porch, huddled under a duvet with mugs of steaming tea. The basset hound ran through the snow with glee, chasing a ball that fetched itself. Neither of them waved until he did, and they shared a look that he could see was surprised, even at a distance.

Grimmauld Place was less cheerful. Grey snow sat shoveled into piles at the side of the roads to make way for soon-to-come morning traffic. He tapped his wand to the front door and pushed it open.

It was a bit much to expect Draco up and cracking, but seeing him slumped against the wall of the first landing corridor was still a shock. Harry rushed forward, crouching down in front of him and calling his name.

Freezing to the touch, naturally, despite the jumper and trousers. His legs bent up at odd angles, supporting his sitting weight as his head rested on his knees. Harry glanced at the closed parlor door and noted the horrific smell coming from within. Rotting.

“Draco,” he repeated, and when he got no response he leaned forward, touching his hand to Draco’s neck and forward, drawing him up as gently as possible by the chin. He looked to be sleeping, but if he was it wasn’t pleasant. There was tension in his face, his eyes circled in bruised purple skin and highlighted by tear tracks. Something like soot marked his cheek.

Harry said his name twice more before Draco’s eyes cracked open. A fresh volley of tears followed the action, falling hot against Harry’s hand.

“What’s happened?” Harry asked urgently, bringing his other hand to Draco’s arm. “Are you alright?”

“I…I dreamed…” Draco’s voice was hoarse and cracked. He turned his face – just for a moment – into Harry’s touch. Then he blinked into himself and jerked his face away. Pain lanced across his features at the movement. “The time?”

“Six.”

The panic faded a bit. He inhaled sharply “What are you doing here?”

Harry resisted an eyeroll, wondering what it would take for Draco to stop asking him that every time he showed up. “I was worried.”

“I just finished only a little while ago. The potion is fine.”

Harry squeezed his arm. “I was worried about _you._ And rightly so. _”_

Draco tensed, meeting his eyes for the first time. They seemed, in flickering torchlight, paler than usual. The irises nearly white, rimmed in red from the strange weeping that was going on.

He seemed to notice that, finally, blinking and touching his own face in confusion. “Would you fetch me a vial?”

Harry obeyed without thought, standing and opening the parlor door a crack. Acrid, white smoke barreled out at them.

“It will pass,” Draco said, pulling his jumper over his nose and mouth. Harry summoned a small, empty vial and shut the door back, coughing. That couldn’t be good for the wallpaper.

Draco took it from him and unscrewed the top, holding it against his cheek and blinking up at the ceiling. A single, heavy teardrop snaked down the side and, to Harry’s amazement, turned bright blue.

“That’s a memory,” he said. “How - ?”

“Residue.” Draco stiffly, trying to stand up and falling back to the floor with a painful _thump._

Harry moved to help, ignoring the protests. He took Draco’s arm and draped it over his shoulder, drawing them both to their feet with a hand on Draco’s waist. He couldn’t even tell if Draco was trying to pull away from him or not, he was so weak.

“I don’t need your _help_ ,” he hissed, even as his slight form leaned against Harry’s side.

“You need someone,” Harry said softly. “And I’m all you’ve got. Which room is yours?”

There was a short, very petulant silence. “Second landing,” Draco finally said, like the fight had completely gone out of him. Harry walked forward with slow, short steps.

“You’ll let Hermione take over the potion,” he said. Mindless words, really, to fill the silence and keep Draco from passing out again.

“It doesn’t work like that.”

His hand had fisted into Harry’s jumper, inside his robe. Ice cold knuckles kept brushing over his skin. “You need some sort of break. This isn’t sustainable.”

In fact, he was sure they had already crossed the threshold of what was sustainable and what wasn’t. Draco looked more like a corpse each time Harry saw him.

“Only two more months. It will all be over.”

“Yes, but you’re suffering. It’s hard to watch.”

“No one’s asking you to,” he slurred, bracing his hand on the banister as they slowly ascended the steps.

“I do wish you’d stop that,” Harry said, sharper than intended.

“Stop what?”

“Pushing me away.” He silently took on more of Draco’s weight, glad for his strength conditioning with the lads. “Especially when there’s no one around to see it.”

Draco said nothing else as they reached the landing. Harry went to the first open door, finding a room much changed from the last look around he’d had. The empty bed frame was now a four poster, through the house’s interference or Draco’s. A fluffy green duvet stretched across, neatly made and probably not slept in for days.

He sat Draco on the edge of it, glancing around. No personal effects. Those must all be in the parlor. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

Draco released him, but slowly, leaning against the headboard without pulling his feet up. “Both. Neither. Does it matter?”

Harry jerked the duvet out from under him, which made him wince again. “Feet up.”

He sighed and pulled his legs up, slumping down against the pillows. Harry dropped the cover over him and cast a warming charm.

“That won’t work,” Draco said, eyelids dropping shut.

Harry, unable to help himself, tucked in the edges of the covers round his shoulders. Something fell out from the fabric and hit his foot. The vial.

Carefully, he picked it up and watched the memory undulate slowly inside. What was it? What kind of magic brought memories out through tears?

It must be destined for the Pensieve, he thought, and glanced around with new purpose. He’d never seen it in the parlor (he’d never seen a Pensieve at all, actually), and this seemed the next most likely place for it.

The only standing furniture other than the bed was a wardrobe. Harry eased one of the wooden doors open, met with a blue glow. Quite bright. Quite unmistakable.

It was nestled at the bottom of the alcove, beside a stacked pile of trousers. Not very big at all, but ornate. Black stone engraved with runes that glowed the same color as the swirling contents.

 _It’s not pleasant, Granger, I warn you_.

Harry set the vial just to the side, where Draco would see it, and turned his head at a noise from downstairs. Coughing. A door slamming shut.

“Harry?”

He ducked out to the corridor. “Up here.”

Hermione came up the stairs at a jog, clutching her purse against her chest, hair in disarray. “Where is he?”

He nodded, letting her duck past him into the bedroom.

“I brought potions. He asked for them the last time, so…” She trailed off, stopping at the end of the bed.

“It’s worse this month,” Harry surmised. She cast him a frightened look and nodded.

“Where did you find him?”

“The corridor.”

“Moonsickness,” she said, recovering and settling the bag down. The mattress groaned like it was much heavier than its size would indicate. Draco didn’t stir. “Like we talked about last night. It’s common with werewolves suppressing their change with potions. Even Bill…” she sighed and set out three large flasks of differing color and consistency.

“He’s not a werewolf.”

“No. Put those on the nightstand?”

He picked up the flasks and moved them over, glancing at Draco. His cheeks remained wet. “What’s all that about?”

“What?”

“The crying.”

She zipped the bag and stepped closer, eyebrows coming together in sympathy. “Mourning.”

“He called it residue. And bottled it.” Harry jerked a thumb toward the still-open wardrobe, holding his hand over the bed to feel the warming charm still in effect. Despite it, Draco was shivering. Harry could see it in his shoulders.

Yet another tear streaked down his pale cheek. If Harry bottled it, would it be a memory, too? Was Draco weeping dreams?

There was a shuffling behind him. Hermione had dropped to her knees, gripping the sides of the Pensieve so tightly her knuckles paled. Not looking into it, though. Looking at the side of it.

Harry turned to watch her. The runes, indecipherable to him, glowed menacingly bright

Before he could even formulate a question, she scrambled to her feet and grabbed her bag.

“I’ve got to get to work. See to it he takes those potions.”

“Hermione.” He strode after her, catching her arm in the hall. “What? What just happened?” He kept _missing_ things, so many steps behind.

“Not _now_ , Harry,” she said tersely, whirling on him. “I have to double check – “

“It’s _nothing_ but excuses with you! How long are you gonna keep me in the dark?”

“How long will you _stay_ in the dark?!” Her sudden yell made him wince. “You have to make a choice.”

It was bad enough she kept pressuring him into this conversation – he could never see when it was coming. “I – I already have!”

“Then enjoy your ignorance!” She wrenched her arm away. “I really do mean that, Harry. I fucking _envy_ you.”

He didn’t follow her as she stormed off. She’d stunned him, a bit, though he supposed he should have expected more fallout. Why did it have to be so bloody _complicated?_

“Lovely music to sleep by,” a voice called. Harry took a step backward, looking in on Draco sitting up and downing one of the flasks.

“Sorry. I’ll go.”

“Wait.”

Harry paused, moving back to the doorway cautiously. Draco beckoned him in, working on the second potion.

“What was it she was yelling at you about?”

Harry drew closer, confused at his interest. He tried handing Draco the third container, but got waved off.

“Later.” He fell back with a grimace, pulling the duvet up around his neck and shuddering. “Girding Potion. Quite foul.”

“Go back to sleep.”

Draco frowned at him. “I’m sure I will. Once you’ve answered my question.”

Harry swiped his hands over the robes, looking pointedly at the bed. Draco shuffled his legs away, turning to his side, half-curled.

“Hermione…” he sat on the edge, curling his hands together in his lap. “Seems to be the only person completely put off by my lack of memory. The others…I dunno, it’s like I’ve come back from a long trip.”

“I am surprised it’s taking so long to reverse the curse,” Draco said. Harry stared down at his hands. “Ah. I see.”

He was still frowning when Harry looked up.

“You don’t want to go back.”

That was the truth of it, but Harry shook his head. “I suppose it’s selfish. There’s only so much other people can tell me about myself…and the life I lived. I could be missing something important and not know it at all.”

“Yes, perhaps,” Draco said, after a pause. “I much prefer you as you were.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “What, you mean when we didn’t talk? I don’t have much to compare it to, but you’re quite obnoxious yourself.”

“Yet you keep coming back.”

“I _do_ care if you live or die, Draco. I owe you that much, and since no one else is lining up for the job…”

His eyebrows rose. “You owe me?”

“You do understand that my _first_ memory is of you saving my life.”

“I did what anyone would do,” Draco said sharply. “And, for the record, I was only evening the score. You’ve saved my life – “

He stopped talking when Harry looked up, eyes dancing away. Another feint, another conversation Harry was only half-involved in.

“I feel drawn to you,” he said flatly. Draco’s eyes widened, snapping back to him. “And I don’t think that’s the only reason for it. I think we weren’t as distant as you claim.”

Even then, as entrenched in exhaustion as he was, Draco schooled his expression well. Harry had no idea what sort of reaction he had provoked. He was tired, though, of pretending he hadn’t noticed.

“Regardless of our past, I like you. Maybe in another world we could have been friends.”

Another world where Draco hadn’t been… a child nazi. An instrument in the hands of adult, more capable nazis. Harry wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about anymore.

“Because you don’t hate me, whatever you say,” Harry said. “Though by all accounts I hated you.”

“If you had your memories back, you wouldn’t be so confused.”

“I don’t doubt it.” But he would be other things. Depressed, alone, ruthlessly determined on work and work alone.

“But you’re right. I no longer have the capacity or the inclination to hate the undeserving,” Draco said somewhat lightly. “It’s been quite the life change. And if we are being honest right now…I never hated you. Not truly. I spent most of my life in the same position you are now – I only knew the idea of Harry Potter. What others told me, and what I saw when we were in school together.”

Harry pulled a knee up, facing him. This was what he had wanted to hear, all those weeks ago, when he’d asked Draco what he was like.

“You were famous, and well-liked. Adored, actually. I resented it, because all who adored you turned against me. _You_ turned against me, the very first time we met. Me! When _I_ had a name nearly as important as yours – or so I believed – and the family, and the money…it took a very long time, Potter, for me to realize that the people close to you liked you simply because you were _likeable._ How horrible. My money didn’t matter, or my name, or blood. I tormented you because it made me angry. I gladly accepted the lies my father told me, because the alternative was unacceptable. How could it be that everything I’d come to believe was important…wasn’t? When I opened my eyes to reality,” he moved beneath the blanket. Gripping his forearm. “It was too late.”

It was a lot to hear. Harry did his best to take it all in before responding, because for all it was, it didn’t give him a lot of insight to himself. Except for one part – _likeable_. That was a new one – though, if he thought about it, everyone had been comparing his attitude of late to that same era before the war. The war was what made him different, and who he had been ever since was the Harry they had struggled to love.

He realized, with a sigh, that _too late_ might have been a sentiment Draco and Other Harry very much shared.

“This potion,” he said. “You’ve been planning it for years.”

Draco shrugged.

“Why did you wait? Was it because I was Head Auror? Would I have shot it down, do you think?”

A touch of wariness entered Draco’ eyes. “Doing this incorrectly…would be catastrophic. I had to prepare. Though I do admit that Dolohov’s attack moved things along for all of us.”

“So you prepared. While cursebreaking in the meantime. I don’t know, Draco. I don’t think it’s too late for you at all.” He considered reaching out, but refrained. Draco looked jumpy. “We’re in this together. And I’ll help you see it through to the end.”

Draco’s lips parted, then pressed closed. His eyes were still leaking at intervals.

“Who knows,” Harry whispered. “Maybe when people find out what you did for us – for the Ministry – “

“Stop,” Draco whispered back. Harry fell silent. “You think that’s why I’m doing this?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I don’t care what they think of me,” he snapped, still at a whisper. “In fact, I welcome it. People like me shouldn’t _be_ accepted.”

Harry didn’t like it, but he couldn’t think of any valid argument. He only nodded, and Draco seemed appeased.

“I think I’ll take that sleep now,” he said quietly. Harry stood.

“I’ll bring you dinner. What do you want?”

“Saucisson brioché from _Mon Plaisir,_ ” he answered without hesitation. Harry blinked, and then laughed, which made him blush. “And a Bordeaux, if they have it.”

“Mon _what?”_

 _“Mon Plaisir._ It’s in Covent Garden. Take muggle coin.”

“…Alright. I think I can manage that.” He’d been expecting a flat out refusal of his offer, now he found himself tasked with going all the way to West End. “When do you have to start up with the potion again? Tonight?”

Draco chewed his lower lip, which Harry tried not to notice. “No. It should be cloudy.”

“Right.” Harry sounded relieved, which made Draco frown. “See you later, then.”

He hesitated at the door, awkwardly. It was a bit juvenile. “Sleep well.”

Draco only raised an eyebrow before rolling over and jerking the cover over his head.

_____________________________________

Harry should have known his luck wouldn’t hold out.

He left Grimmauld Place in a daze – avoiding the parlor and strolling out to the street. Draco had agreed to dinner with him. Well, dinner _from_ him, but Harry was happy to broker food if it made Draco feel, nay, _look_ , better.

Ron wasn’t in his house, when he returned. Hermione was.

He knew just by looking at her – different clothes, hair braided back, no longer harried and panicked.

“Let me guess,” he said, pushing the door shut with more force than necessary. “It’s been longer than a half hour for you.”

She stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, face set in stone. “We need to talk.”

“We just did. Or what do you call yelling at me back there?”

“No.” She stared at the floor, then back up, setting her shoulders. “I need to talk to _you.”_

“What…fuck off. We aren’t having this conversation _again._ ”

“We are. This has gone on long enough.”

She was quite serious. Harry’s heart clenched in fear. No. Not yet. “Stop.”

“I can’t do this alone,” she said, composure breaking as her lower lip wobbled. “Not any longer. Not after – “

“After what? After what you saw in the Pensieve?”

“What I saw _on_ the Pensieve.”

“The Pensieve _you made._ ”

“I – “ She put out a hand. “Enough. I didn’t come here to argue about it. It – it would be best if you went with me to the Department of – “

“No,” Harry said, making sure to enunciate. “I’m. Not. Going.”

“Listen to me.” She stepped closer. He stepped away. “I _know_ what he’s planning. What Draco was hiding from me – I’ve figured it out.”

“What? What is it?”

“I can’t tell you. Not yet.”

“This is _maddening,_ Hermione!” He snapped, voice rising as she drew all of his pent up frustration toward her into the open. “I’m sick to _death_ of your riddles! If this is how Ron feels all the time – ”

“Do you have _any idea_ ,” she yelled right back. “What it is _like_ to oversee _everything_ by myself? All that we’ve worked for – it’s all in jeopardy right now, and I – “ She dropped her hands to her sides. “I don’t know what to do. I need you. This is – it’s bigger than you or me. Can you understand that? You don’t know what you want, and…and neither do I. Not anymore. So you need to come back.”

“I’m right here.”

She shook her head.

“Just say it, Hermione. You don’t need me. You need _him_.”

“That,” she said lowly, pointing a finger at him. “Is _exactly_ the problem. There is no _him_. There’s only you. Harry. And the longer you go on thinking that there’s a difference, the harder it will be to adjust when I give your memories back to you.”

“When?” He repeated. Her hands clenched into fists. “ _When_ you give them back? You mean you – ”

“Of _course_ _I know_ ,” she exploded, throwing her hands up. “I knew within a _week_ how to fix you!”

“So why?” He challenged, drawing up to his full height. “Why let it go on?” She couldn’t answer him, and they both knew it. “Why let me be happy? Why let me be a good friend? A better father? A better _son_.” The reference to Molly made Hermione flinch. “If you were just planning on taking it all away? _Why_ Hermione?”

“What was I supposed to do, Harry? Do you think I _enjoy_ making these decisions? I knew it was wrong but – but you were _you_ again. You were _just Harry._ Not the rest – not the pain. Not the anger.”

“And now you feel differently?”

She covered her face with her hands for a minute, breathing heavily. “As much as I wish it could be, this isn’t permanent. I only let it go on to – to hopefully give you a bit of perspective. After.”

Harry had stopped listening, ice cold terror shooting down his back. “What do you mean, not permanent?”

“It’s…there’s a barrier. In your mind. Your memories are there – I broke through it. I even tested…giving one back to you. Remember?”

It was another riddle, but Harry knew the answer, somehow. “Todrick.”

“Yes.”

“You…” It had happened when he was still going regularly to Mysteries. “You… _gave_ me his name?”

“I gave you the…suggestion of it, yes. But – but that was a simple one. I’m afraid that…the barrier could break at any time, should something trigger it.”

“A _barrier?_ How could that be? What sort of magic – “

“Strong magic.”

“You’ve seen my memories. You – you must know what happened to me.”

Hermione went perfectly still, eyes shining. Strong magic, she said – not Dark.

“I have strong magic,” he realized. Of course – he could do all sorts of wandless things. And only the night before, she had been telling him how extraordinary his Patronus charm was when he was only thirteen.

His next words came without him even thinking them first. “I did this to myself. Didn’t I?”

A long silence passed between them. Hermione turned pleading. “Harry – “

“Did Dolohov attack me at all?”

“He did attack you – “

“But I took my own memories.” He laughed, disbelieving. “Or was that only a mistake? Had I tried to do something worse?”

“No – “

Of course she would deny him even this simple, _obvious_ truth. “You think you know how much pain I was in, Hermione? You _really_ think you know? _Accio journal.”_

She took a startled step back when he drew his wand, which he felt distantly guilty about. Maybe his tone wasn’t as controlled as he thought it was.

“I do know,” she beseeched, hands still raised as though to defend, glancing back and forth between him and the staircase, where his wand was still pointed. “I know better than anyone, Harry. And I know – “

The dragon-skin journal flew around the corner and into his hands. He tossed it to her.

“Read it.”

She caught it, staring at the cover in blank shock. Giving him a wary look, she opened the front cover and two seconds later closed it, breathing hard.

“No. I – I can’t. You wouldn’t want me to – “

“I’M. RIGHT. HERE.” He bellowed. “And I’m _telling_ you to read it.”

She stood paralyzed, staring at him like she’d never seen him before. Harry didn’t blame her. He felt quite deranged. But he was also furious. And scared.

“Fine.” He moved forward and snatched it out of her hands, opening to a random page in the middle.

“Har – “

“September the fourth. 1998,” he read loudly. “I woke up this morning, and I didn’t know where I was. Ron was there. I almost attacked him, because I only saw Voldemort’s face. When will it stop? When will I stop being afraid? When will I be able to sleep through the night?”

Hermione gasped. “Harry, _please – “_

He turned the page, to a different entry. “Every day is the longest day of my life. Don’t know how to make it through anymore.” He looked up scathingly. “Well, I was no poet.”

“I don’t want to hear any more – “

“Oh, look. This page is only a list of names. Do you know any of them? Lupin, Tonks, Fred, Sirius, Colin, Lavender – “

Hermione made a noise of desperate frustration, pulling her wand to cast a Stinging Hex. The journal fell out of his hands. He kicked it so hard it flew against the wall.

“Am I getting through to you?” He asked, feeling quite desperate himself. “Or do you need more?”

She only stared at him, horrified and speechless.

“What if there was something you really didn’t know about me? Something I could never seem to tell you for some reason? Because I was too sad and alone and scared.”

Suddenly, her eyes widened. “Harry. Don’t – “

“I’m gay!” He threw his hands up. She shut her eyes. “I’m fucking gay! Why does nobody know that about me?! Is _that_ the person you’d rather have? Someone completely resigned to that sort of sadness? What if – what if you send me back, and I do something worse than just obliviating myself? All so you can have Harry Potter back on your agenda.”

Her eyes opened, full of pain and regret. He could see that he’d gotten to her in every way he could. He saw that it didn’t matter. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “No, you aren’t.”

She shook her head. “You don’t get it. Catching Dolohov is all you have cared about for the past ten years.”

“I don’t care – “

“You got it in your head that you couldn’t start living until every Death Eater was captured – “

“Hermione!”

“ – and we’ve never been closer than we are now. But I’ve seen your memories, now. I know that – that I didn’t have the entire picture before, and now I can’t tell which path you would rather take. I just know that I – like _always_ – have to keep everything together. I _truly_ do not know what to do. Because for the first time there is someone who wants it more than you _ever_ did. Someone who is prepared to do _whatever_ it takes to – “

“I don’t want any more _fucking_ puzzles to solve! Tell me or don’t!”

“I don’t know,” she yelled, “if I am saving your life or ending it! I really don’t! And the same could be said for Draco. I don’t know what more I can _do!”_

“You can _be happy_ for me. You can forget, like everyone else has, that I was ever anything different than what I am now! I mean, can you _really_ stand here and pretend that everyone doesn’t prefer me this way? That they aren’t _thrilled_ at what’s happened?”

Her tears drew no sympathy from him. “No, I can’t.”

“Then what is the problem?’

“You are. You’re the problem.” With that, she strode to the door and opened it. Harry bit back a scream of rage. “I know you don’t realize it now, Harry, but this is the cruelest thing you have ever done to me.”

“Spare me.”

She cast him a teary-eyed, but still very furious look. The door slammed shut. Harry nearly drove his fist into the blank wood. Repressing the urge made the entryway lightbulb shatter.

_____________________

He didn’t calm down for what felt like hours, cycling through anger, helplessness, and finally plain dread. A temporary barrier. Had Hermione meant it? Or was it a bluff? Had she constructed the thing in the first place, so that this entire situation would drag on until she’d grown tired of it?

If she really did figure it out in the first week, why the hell had he kept going back to Mysteries? Had she used all that time to pry through his head? For _fun?_

There was more she had said, or tried to say. Something about Dolohov, and Draco…but he’d been too upset to listen. Her words spun around his head without finding purchase anywhere. Meaningless.

Castor stayed away from him, probably sensing his mood. Harry cleaned the kitchen, dusted Teddy’s room, and showered, his head buzzing all the while.

He searched, futilely, for any presence in his head that might be called a _barrier_. Nothing, of course. He felt fine, his head solidly on his shoulders. It was a relief to go outside, into the cold, with a scarf bundled around his face and hat pulled low. As good as any invisibility cloak.

He’d checked the Apparition map in the most recent _Prophet_ , so he popped into an alley off Langely Street, enjoying the short walk to the restaurant that he had also had to search up in the directory closest to his house. His thoughts turned to the night ahead, trying to shake off the fight and how uneasy it had made him.

The restaurant, when he found it, was…quaint. Surprisingly so. The name of it was hand-painted on a clapboard sign, a cardboard standee holding the night’s menu. Harry found the _saucisson_ and walked inside, putting in two orders of that and one Bordeaux, which they did have. Several types. He asked what a hundred quid would get.

Draco’s bedroom door still sat open, but Harry knocked anyway, rapping against the door frame with his knuckles. The bed rustled as Draco sat up sharply. He was shadowed, his hair lit brilliant white in profile.

“Geet dressed,” Harry said. “The food’s at my house.”

“You had better mean _this_ house.”

“No. Other one.” He smiled at Draco’s groan. “Only a bit of a walk, but it’s lovely out. You can wear the Cloak.”

“Are you punishing me for something, Potter?”

“Humor me,” Harry said. Draco sounded better. “ _Can_ you walk?” He asked as an afterthought. Draco made a disparaging sound and threw the covers aside.

Harry retreated to the corridor, and then down the steps to the parlor. There was still a fair amount of smoke when he opened the door and Summoned the Cloak, but it was nearly scentless.

Draco met him a few minutes later, again in muggle clothes and not robes. The bulk of yet another jumper hid his thinness. He pulled the Cloak from Harry and put it on, only speaking when he was no longer visible.

“Lead the way. I’m starving.”

Harry did. They descended the stairs and walked out into the late afternoon of Grimmauld Place. Christmas lights sparkled in the distance.

“A night out in Islington,” came Draco’s dry voice. “Should we go visit the canal museum?”

“If you like. Food might get cold.” Harry turned down the alley he always Apparated to and from. “We can walk past the shops at Westminster, they’ve really gone all out – “

A massive crack echoed through the alley. It was so loud and sudden Harry didn’t know where to look, reaching for his wand. The very next instant, he heard Draco’s voice.

“Harry!”

Something hard barreled into his side, sending him sprawling to the ground just as two sections of wall from the buildings on either side of them detached with more rumbling noises and dust, chunks of brick and cement falling in pieces as the larger two slabs rushed toward each other.

Harry was just barely out of the way. He felt the wind of their speed throw his hair back, and the noise blast his eardrums as they met – crashing so hard they both shattered and rained down on him.

Instinct kicked in. He cast a _protego_ to protect himself from the worst of it, jumping to his feet before the dust settled and whipping his wand around in a circle, searching for the attacker. Not a soul. He heard screams from the buildings, and down the street. Car alarms were going off nearby. His ears rang.

Rooftops, empty. Harry waited for a shot, a curse to streak past him or into him. Anything at all to give him a hint of where to aim.

Nothing. Beyond the ringing and encroaching chaos of bystanders, it was silent.

“Draco?” He asked. To his left, the missing wall showed an empty, derelict apartment building. To the right, an empty warehouse. The rubble from the crash piled up in front of him, stray pieces falling to the ground.

“Draco!”

No answer. His heart jumped to his throat. Draco had been hit. He was unconscious somewhere and completely invisible. “ _Accio Cloak!”_

Nothing. The Cloak was too powerful for that. He squeezed his eyes shut, hearing voices approaching the blast site. Probably police, soon.

“ _Homenum revelio!”_

A glimmer, to his left. Harry fell to his knees, feeling around the ground until he found something soft. Draco. The Cloak yanked away easily, caught only beneath his body and not a wayward block of cement, as he feared.

But he had been hit. There was blood.

Harry looked up, at the people rushing out of their houses across the street. At the nearby piece of wall that had some sort of symbol on it.

A lot of blood. Too much to waste any more time. Harry pulled the Cloak over his head and dragged Draco’s limp body off the ground, Apparating them both away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading!! (fuck jk rowling)


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